Indecent Proposal
by Shakespearestwinsister
Summary: When Ron gambles he and Hermione's money away, he tries to win it back; accept Hermione attracts the attention of a mysterious man who offers her 1,000,000 for just one night with her. How can they refuse? Surely its just Hermione's body he wants? Or maybe, its something more. Non magical; alternate universe-type-thing, and based on the film of the same name .
1. Chapter 1

_**This is something slightly different I've been working on. Its based on the film - I'm still not sure how its going to work, so please, let me know if you think its going okay :)**_

Chapter 1  
We visit the casino again

"Ron, I really think-"

"Hermione." He stopped, dropping the hand her had been dragging and walking over to me, his hand snaking under my defiant chin, insistent until I gave up and looked at him. "Trust me."

I sighed, hopelessly. Trust him... Of course I trusted him, I was his wife. Perhaps something too out of my age-range, something too serious to be at the tender age of eighteen. But of course I trusted him, I had always trusted him.

I sighed, shaking my head. It was illogical – I knew that. The odds were ridiculously small that we could win, and ever more likely that we would lose. Casinos don't give money away, they take it. They take it from the hearts of the desperate, weak and good natured, turning them into bitter, obsessed old shrews.

Trust him? It went against every logical thought I had, but I had to trust him.

Taking my sigh as a sigh of defeat, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the Casino with him. The bright neon lights buzzed and whirred from over head. Inside was a ruckus. Yellow cocktail music mingled with the crash and cash of machines, the ting and thunder of a player's of coin slots, repeating their motions in a robotic fashion. It put me ill at ease from the beginning, that mechanical whir, and then as we delved deeper into the labyrinth of the Casino, the unease got tangible.

The amount of people there was staggering first. At the coin slots on the way in, they were dressed as ordinarily as Ron and I were – primarily, in slacks and cardigans and sandals. Now, as we delved deeper into the maze, the outfits were changing – suddenly, we were amongst the rich, who threw their money away for sport. There were the older women, who, in their long, heavy ball-gowns, were making their gloved hands picking up their chips and dropping them. There were the men, tall businessmen, in their suits and snappy little cigars, talking to each other about a latest business proposition. Then there were the younger women on their arms – with their long blond hair, impossibly long legs, sexily underneath the slit up the side of their gowns.

"I... I don't think we belong here. Maybe we should-" I began, but Ron cut me off. He was pulling me towards the stand where you could exchange chips for money. I nearly had a heart attack when he put all of our savings – _our savings – _on the counter.

The dealer gave us a couple of chips in varying colours, into a little cup. That was £3,000, in a cup. All of our money, all of my savings. Everything. Everything we were.

In a cup.

"I... I can't watch this." I whispered.

I turned to him, and before I could open my mouth to tell him I was leaving, he opened his to tell me how disappointed in me he was. How he needed my support. How I needed to be a wife...

I shrugged. He was drunk, I was upset – so, I turned on my heel and left him. Okay, not _left _him. I only went upstairs. I couldn't leave him could I? Not that I didn't want to – I did want to leave. To be as far away from this as possible.

But I couldn't.

So instead I went upstairs.

It was ridiculous. I had explained, pleaded – I had actually begged for him not to come again tonight. See, Ron and I were trying to start a family. The problem was we didn't have enough money to do anything – to buy a bigger house, to buy a bigger anything.

My job as a Estate agent (far away from the teacher I wanted to be) got us by, but Ron's dream was to be an architect. His passion for buildings was as tangible as my own passion for education. So, I didn't go to University. I got a dead end job, in a dead end area, in a dead end Estate agents, while Ron got to pursue his passion and talent.

It seemed natural at the time – the only option, so one of us could fulfil our dreams. Now, I'm half-bitter. In lots of drunken arguments I often slung it at him – but it was true. I was bitter because now I'd never escape this, I'd never go back to Uni, I'd never use all those qualifications to get where I wanted to go, because we'd never be able to afford. Realistically, the market for architects isn't what it was – no one was hiring, so Ron had no job at all.

I supported him, I saved and saved.

And he was gambling it all.

And he was going to lose it all.

He came last night, while I was asleep. When He came back to our grotty flat, I was amazed at the £1,000 he brought home. I can't pretend I wasn't _glad _he'd gambled all our savings. I can't pretend I didn't like us feeling more together than we ever had. That falling asleep in this blanket of money made me sleep easier than I had in weeks...

But I just can't believe he would do something so stupid. That he wouldn't listen to me. That he was letting the alcohol do the talking.

And that I could do nothing to stop it.

Upstairs was quieter than downstairs. It was full of bars and huge gift shops. The bar was along the other side, and by it, a huge glass wall with lots of tables of players; that was obviously a private lounge for the richer, more serious participants. I went over to the bar, digging into my pockets for lose change, and scraping enough together to order a fairly masculine pint. Dragging it to my lips, it gave me a strange sort of courage, and I started to feel more at home, despite the looks I was getting from women in their ball gowns, ordering martini's.

I looked over at the private lounge – inside were a bunch of men in suits. Definitely business men. Just to complete the stereotype, there was a little Chinese guy, on a phone, speaking fluent Cantonese, obviously participating for his boss back home. They were of varying nationalities; there was even a man in a cowboy hat with a beige suit – even above the chatter in the bar, I could hear his Texan drawl, and he placed his bet.

But it wasn't either of them that caught my eye.

Instead it was a man who was looking directly at me. His blonde, gently carved hair was pushed back from his face. His eyes were electric blue, piercing. They were cold, but somehow...

Warm. Scorching, even. Burned into my memory.

When I realised he wasn't looking away from me (as he perhaps should) I looked away, turning back to my pint and bringing it to my lips again. I stole another glance into the lounge through the glass window. They had spectators now – lots of women and men watching the bets excitedly. He was talking to the dealer, placing his bet (a substantial amount of money) and he caught a glance at me, again. This time, he smiled.

I couldn't help but smile gently back, even though I found this... odd? Strange?

No. That feeling wasn't either. It was dangerous.

I downed my pint and then left, before the barman could demand a tip. Escaping the intensity of the bar, I wasn't sure where I could go now. I stood at the top of the staircase for a moment, deciding. It might have just have been the alcohol, but I began to feel confident - impulsive, even. I couldn't help but let my feet carry me over to a huge clothes store towards the farthest corner. It was beautiful, and open planned – and, to my relief, empty. I was wearing my silly little jeans and a baggy white shirt – there was only a busy looking attendant stood at the till, paying no attention, and clearly cashing up.

So, impulsively, I was walking the shelves, pretending I was among the rich and stars. I walked past hangers of ball gowns and cocktail dresses, stroking the material, until finally, I stopped before one. A black, gossamer gown, flared at the waist – fifties, vintage, and stunning. I looked over the top of the isle – the retail assistant still paid me no attention, and continued counting out her money. I walked up towards a mirror and stood there, looking at myself. I had never really been a _pretty _girl. I was short, curvy and voluptuous, with muscular legs and arms which were a few sizes too big for my liking. My neck was short, ungraceful. My hair was long, brown, curly. Perfectly ordinary – nothing amiss and blend-able amongst a crowd of people.

But in spite of myself, I found the gown on the soft padded hanger, and raised it to my body. I wished I could even afford it... I shouldn't even have been there, I knew that. But I just.. just for five minutes...

I unbuttoned my shirt, and raised the beautiful dress to my bare skin, complimenting the contrast of colours in the mirror. The black on my pale white. _So _beautiful.

"Why don't you buy it?"

I jumped, nearly dropping the dress as though it were on fire. I looked up and saw the same man who had paid me so much attention the bar, stood behind me now. Those same, piercing blue eyes looking at my reflection, just as I was looking at his.

I then realised, comically, that I had no dress covering this bare skin of mine. So I burned red, and angrily buttoned up my shirt, putting the dress back on the hanger next to me.

"Well?" he asked, flashing me those white teeth of his. "Why don't you?"

"I..." I paused, embarrassed. "I can't afford it."

"Oh." He said, seemingly unsurprised. He walked towards me levelly. Without even looking at the price tag, he said, "Let me buy it for you."

I raised an eyebrow, automatically distrustful. What kind of stranger offered to buy a dress which was easily about £5,000?

"No, thank you."

"Why not?" he said, as I continued to button up my blouse, the red embarrassment quickly being replaced by anger.

"Because it would be inappropriate," I replied, impolitely.

"Why? I'd make a gift of it." He replied honestly. "It looked beautiful on you."

I raised my eyebrow but said nothing more of it. In the rush, my blouse was buttoned up wrong, and now all the buttons were wrong and they stretched all the wrong way. I sighed, giving up.

"You really ought to have the dress," he repeated again.

This time I had to laugh. "You certainly seem to want to buy me that dress."

"Well in fairness, it's perfectly selfish," he replied, there was a gentle humour in his eyes. "I've enjoyed watching you in it. You've earned it."

Earned it? I was repulsed. What kind of woman did he think I was, exactly? I decided to laugh it off, tidying the dress up on the hanger, soothing the gossamer and avoiding eye contact, until finally I turned to him, picking up my bag, still smiling but the humour not touching my eyes.

"No I haven't... the dress is for sale. I'm not."

With one last look in his electric blue eyes – I left. Except the look wasn't what I was expecting. I was expecting the same, dejected, awkwardly-humoured man I had known. Instead, he watched me leave, eyes burning and that same humour there – that tangible danger of something lurking underneath.

Something that said, _you want a bet?_

When I found Ron he was downstairs. Sure enough, all our money was gone. He had drunk away the rest in a spiralling depression.

"S'up 'mione? Eh?"

"Come on, Ron, we need to go," I told him, basically picking him up off the bar chair and pulling him with me. Anything so that same man didn't have to see me again – and not meet the drunk I had for a husband.

When we were in bed that night, with Ron snoring next to me, my thoughts couldn't detach themselves from his icy blue stare. From his offer – and, finally, just before my eyes began to close... that one, last look. It might have only have been a millisecond, but I had the strangest feeling this wasn't the end...


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
I become a good luck charm.

The tenth customer was always the worst one. In this job it didn't pay to be superstitious, but I never looked forward to the tenth customer because it was always the customer that tended to take the mick, the customer that didn't care, and the customer that only came in for the hell of it.

Today the tenth customer was Ron. He walked into the Estate agents, and I nearly died of shame. You could clearly smell the alcohol on his breath, the fact that he hadn't bathed – that he'd simply woken up and come and found me.

He sat down, red hair stuck up and eyes deep in their sockets.

"Listen, 'Mione. I know I'm a mess,"

"Understatement of the century, Ron." I was burning with embarrassment. The other staff all watched from their desks, and I tried to make it look as though he were an ordinary customer. "You're not supposed to see me at work, remember?"

"Yah, I know. But I thought we could... go to... you know... casino. Maybe –"

"Get a drink?" I put in for him. I sighed, and put my hand on his. "Ron, you said that last night. You lost our money. My money, even. My savings, that I've saved for two years. I... I'm still angry at you. Last night you were just too pissed too-"

"Didn't seem too angry when I won that grand the other night," he hissed back, drawing his hand back.

I sighed, massaging my temples. "Ron... I... I love you." I settled on. I found his eyes, and told him again. "I really really love you. And don't want to lose you."

"Who said anything about losing me?" he asked, gently. That same, loveable, little boy was there again. The one that I had first fallen in love with. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Then start listening to me," I asked of him, "Listen to me and stop gambling and drinking our money away."

Ron paused, went to say something, and then paused again. Finally, defeated, he said, "But – 'Mione, right. This is why I came – we have this weird invitation thing..."

_Invitation thing? _

"To the Casino tonight. Something that says we could have free drinks..."

I had a feeling I knew who had organised that. And I knew that we wouldn't be attending.

"Listen, Ron, we don't need any more drinks. It's been ages since we... you know... maybe it could be nice to have a night in. We could get a film, a takeaway, maybe, if we could afford..."

Ron looked awfully unenthusiastic, but defeated. "Okay, maybe your right... but... they're valid for three weeks," Ron added.

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing, as Ron sloped off towards the door out. Valid for three weeks? This man was determined.

No Casino's handed out free money, or free drinks, for that matter, after all.

* * *

I was snuggled up on the sofa, book in my hands, reading some fluffy novel about some romantic relationship of some variety. I was already sick of it – it was much too impractical, after all.

That was, until Ron strolled in. He had gone out for a bottle of wine, and had taken hours. Of course, I knew where he had gone, and I knew when he came back, he could have had wine, but from the casino. The kind you consumed rather than brought home.

I sat up, slammed by book down. Until, I realised what he had in his hands.

It was a deposit slip – I knew them too well. A deposit for £500,000, on a piece of land.

I felt the scream tear out of my mouth before I started to hit him. I knew what he'd done, before he even had to tell me. Before the tears fell from my eyes, before I started to sob, because I knew he'd put us into debt, debt we'd tried so hard to avoid.

He had borrowed £500,000 from the bank, somehow. He'd lied about his age, his income, so he could borrow it. And then, he'd purchased the very land our estate agency had been trying to sell, all so he could pursue his dream of building a dream home.

I was going to kill him.

"'Mione! Aren't – what – stop!"

"You little shit! What the hell have you done?" I screamed, "We're in debt Ron! All that money, not in _your _account, but in _our _account! You selfish pig!" I slammed my fists into him, tears pouring from my eyes as he winced, "You selfish – selfish – SELFISH PIG!"

My fists finally stopped working, and I broke down into sobs. I ran my hands through my hair, and shook with hatred, with terror, with complete oblivion. Ron's hands, still drunk and clumsy, came around me, and his lips were in my hairline. I felt my face reach up to his, then gently, our lips came together; his, bitter with the taste of beer and adrenaline – mine, wet with tears. We kissed, not because I had redeemed him (although in his mind, he probably thought that) but because I needed the contact. I felt my hands thread through his hair, angrily, and his undo my dressing gown, pulling it away from my body.

When we fucked, it wasn't intimate, it was angry, possessive. The kind that created a distance. It was selfish fucking – fucking because you needed it, rather than because you wanted to share. Fucking because you were too angry to do much else. Fucking as your nails dug, primal, into his back. Fucking, because fucking was easier than fighting. Fucking, because it was a fight unto itself.

When we had done, we laid there, on the floor, panting. His hand ran through his hair, and, as he reached for my hand, he assumed all had been forgiven.

What could I do, other than take his hand in my own. Other than let him hold me, and tell me how it was all going to be okay, how he had a plan to win the money back at the casino.

What could I do, other than play along?

To let him kiss me tenderly, and gently return his kisses, until, exhausted, we fell into sleep.

* * *

I didn't go to work the next day. Instead, I agreed to go to the casino – again – with him. I was welcomed again by that mechanical unease – the whir of coin slots, the crash of the money being released over and over. The flash of neon lights enticing the hordes like moths to a flame.

Ron, jabbering about how all the big money was upstairs, pulled me with him before I could protest. Oh fuck, please don't lets bump into –

And there he was. Not in the lounge itself, today, but at a table. The seats in the bar had been moved to accommodate him; in his expensive suit, his hair back, off his face. His electric blue eyes, finding me, as his smile widened.

He had spectators here, too. There was a large crowd, cheering him on. I tried to pull Ron away before he could get to us – but Ron was already wondering off towards the bar, calling back to me – something about making the most of free drinks.

He walked up to me, the crowds parting to accommodate him, and as he stopped before me, he bowed his head, eyes twinkling.

"You're back." He said.

"You knew I would be." I replied. Eyes hard and piercing back. "Well, you knew he would be." My eyes drifted to where Ron was at the bar.

His eyes ghosted there too, then back to me.

"At least my present is being made use of by someone." He said, innocently.

I glared at him. "You knew – I don't know how you knew – but you knew he couldn't resist."

He looked back at me, a daringly innocent smile on his lips, ignoring the malice I replied with. "I knew no such thing. But yes, there are _ways... _of finding these things out... Hermione."

As his lips traced my name, there was an unsettling feeling in my stomach. A feeling that I didn't like, that I wanted to go away. He looked back at the crowd, who waited for him at table. The dealer waited, patiently, for him to come back.

"Mr Malfoy, are you still playing?"

He looked up, nodded at the dealer, and then turned to me. "Help me win?" he requested.

I raised an eyebrow. "_Help _you win?" I said, I actually laughed. "Help you win... that's ridiculous."

He blinked, "And why is it ridiculous?"

"Because," I said, as the crowd quietened to listen in, "I can no more make you win than I can make it rain, or snow, or sunshine. It's a silly sentiment – every game you ever play in life is down to luck."

"Luck, hm?" he said, with that breath-taking smile. "Luck... well... why don't you be my lucky charm?"

I blinked. "I'm not a talisman..."

"You're as good as," he replied, his eyes full of that same humour. He offered me his hand, then, at my look, thought better of it, and gave me his arm. "Come on."

I raised my eyebrow, but in spite of myself, I let him walk me over to the card table. He offered me the seat next to him, as he introduced me to two other players.

"Hermione, this is-"he gestured next to him, "-Blaise Zabini, a close friend of mine,"

"Good evening," Blaise said, extending his hand to her. He smiled, as though her presence had confirmed something in him.

There was a small glance between them that I clearly was not supposed to pick up on. It was as though Blaise was asking him a question, and Malfoy was replying with a small nod.

"And this," Mr Malfoy added, "Is Richard Marx, a business associate. Mr Marx is the founder of the First TV Network, you might have heard of him."

I stammered my hello, and turned back to Malfoy and watched as he picked up the cards the dealer had given him. I knew they were playing a variation of poker – texas holdem, maybe – but I had no idea how to play it.

"Okay," Malfoy breathed, showing me the cards, like he'd trust me with his life, "What do you think?"

What did I think? Well. He had a three and a seven. That's what I thought.

"I... I really don't know." I whispered, "I'm not good at..."

He smiled, eyebrow raised. "I don't care. I've been losing all day." The click of golden chips brought my attention to his hand. Not just random golden chips either, golden chips that were £10,000 each.

And he had ten of them in his hand, which he was passing expertly through his fingers.

And he had another load on the table; those chips were of a deeper, purple colour.

£100,000.

I stared at him in horror, and he laughed. "Relax. It's not as awful as it looks."

I stared at him, wordless, and he replied, "Well, in fairness, it's not like I don't have it to throw away."

I shook my head free of that bizarre social comment, and then he proceeded to laugh. "Okay, what do we do? Check, maybe?"

The cards were being laid out on the table. Three random cards – two jacks, and a five.

His saying it so matter-of-factly was incredible, considering he was giving away his game plan to the other players. Blaise was chuckling to himself, drumming his fingers across the table.

"Well..." I knew enough about it from experience to know that, logically, the odds of his winning were very slim. "I'd fold."

"Okay." He said. The dealer turned to him, "Fold."

The dealer took note as he folded, and then the other cards were revealed. As it turned out, it was Richard Marx who won the hand. He had a Jack and a five, which constituted a full house. Either way, he was incredibly lucky – when he caught me looking, he winked. "Don't worry – I'm not always this lucky. It's just the effect you have on Draco over there – goes all soft in the presence of pretty women."

The audience clucked, and I looked at Draco, gauging his reaction. He did nothing but stare back at me, indulgently, as though my presence there was of his design.

"Next hand," said the dealer, and the cards were dealt.

Without thinking, I scooped ours up as the other three cards were laid out on the table. He gathered closer, and smirked.

"See, told you that you were my good luck charm." As it happened, by some odd, ridiculously lucky twist of fate, we were given a straight flush.

"How much do you want to bet?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Bet it all."

I blinked, eyes widening. "All – _sorry, all – _of it?"

"Well, no one's going to top it." He smiled, gently. "Go ahead."

I pushed the chips forwards, and, of course... we'd won. And not just won some of it – we'd one a single, beautifully lustrous golden chip – except it differed from the £10,000 because it was bigger and – really, much more beautifully carved. The Dealer handed it over so calmly that it terrified me – it was like it was second nature to him, to have so much money in his hands.

And to hand it over to me.

I couldn't think. I couldn't digest the information.

I had £1,000,000 pounds in my hands.

"I... I think this is yours." I made to hand it to him, and he smiled, gently taking it from me.

He leaned forwards, going to kiss me on the cheek before he whispered in my ear, "Not for long."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Since so many have asked, Draco and Hermione don't know one another at all. I basically tried to do something completely different with the characters that hadn't been done before. So, I took them out of Hogwarts and put them in the Muggle world. Draco's a few years older... only the relationship between Draco and Blaise, and Hermione and Ron is really the same; and to be fair, they're altered. Everything else is built a-new.  
Right, anyway. This is chapter three – enjoy! **_

Chapter 3

The Devil Proposes a Business Deal

When I looked up, Ron was stood, watching. Accept, the face he pulled wasn't the one I expected – or even the one I needed. He was laughing – cheering me on. I half expected him to make an awful mess and to embarrass me by punching his lights out – instead he whooped and clucked my name, a pint of lager in his hands.

"Introduce me," Draco whispered in my ear.

I sighed, ignoring the way his breath raised those tingles on my neck, and brushing it away with my hand. "I really think we should leave, actually." I said, trying to walk over to Ron and pull him away.

That was, until Ron captured me in those big arms of his and before I could drag him away, Malfoy caught up with us.

"Hello," he said, politely, offering Ron a hand. I sighed as I detached myself from my husband, and turned to this strange billionaire.

Ron took it, somewhat clueless.

"I'm sorry I borrowed your wife," Malfoy chuckled, and that characteristic twinkle in his eyes sparkled and fizzed. "I wasn't sure you'd get her back, but I managed it..."

The humour didn't touch his eyes, and he was looking directly into mine. I don't know why, I honestly don't. I wasn't easily intimidated by anyone, especially some creepy guy who thought he had a claim over me or something... but he was... like an X-ray machine. He didn't look at me, he looked through me. Impossibly so.

Ron laughed, trying to join in on the joke. He just didn't understand, and in fairness, I didn't want to make him. If I did, he'd be angry at me, even if I was innocent in the entire thing. Which I was, for the most part.

Even though I felt impossibly guilty, I had done nothing. It's as though I'd eloped with him, or had an affair with him. In reality I'd played cards with him; that was it.

Then why did it feel so... wrong, so dangerous, so risky. Why was I so weary before trusting this man? Why was I finding his enduring presence at this casino so troubling? Why was he so fixated on me, amongst these beautiful, rich women?

Why was I even comparing myself to them in the first place?

"Anyway," I said, purposefully loudly. "We have to go."

"You can't go yet," Draco said, smilingly. "Come on, stay. I'll get the hotel to get you a room – on me..."

"On you?" Ron snorted. "Sweet charity..."

"Not really." Draco said, smiling. "I own the hotel, so they'll pretty much do anything for me. Plus even if I were to buy the room, your wife would have earned it, not have had it out of charity."

"Oh... well, if you're sure." Ron said, laughing.

Meanwhile, I was forcibly reminded of the first time we met. That black dress. That room.

"_It looks beautiful on you... you should have the dress, you've earned it." _

That echoed in my mind, raising Goosebumps on my skin. Then, my final line. _The dress is for sale, I'm not. _

I'm not for sale.

"That will be unnecessary." I said, impolitely, forcing my mouth to say the words as the shivers ran through my body. His electric blue eyes found mine, and I could hear the words echoing between us now. _You've earned it... I'm not for sale... you've earned it... I'm not for sale..._

"Honey," Ron said, scooping me up with one arm, "come on. That would be rude to step on Mr-" he paused, waiting for Draco to slide in his name.

"Malfoy,"

"Right! - Mr Malfoy's - hospitality." Ron said, laughingly. He rolled his eyes, "Women!"

Fuck, if only he knew. If only he possibly even slightly knew what was going on under this social pretence. In a strange way, I knew what was coming. In a strange way, the tension between us was tangible enough to cut with a knife. It's just that Ron was too loutish to feel it.

"Okay," he said, smiling. He pulled his gaze away from me, "I'll go and sort it with the hotel."

And he turned on his heel and left.

Ron turned to me, and exploded with "we were so fortunate" and "You're so talented, baby!" and "What a nice guy!" but I knew better. I knew he was up to something, and I knew something huge was coming. Something with would shake me, move me... disturb the very foundations of my life.

And I could feel it. And if I told Ron, he'd have laughed at me, and then demanded to know what was wrong. To know what this was. I wanted to tell him, but how could I? How could I and how could he still love me afterwards? For how shit he was, I was nothing without him. He was everything I'd ever known, and without him, everything lost its meaning. I lost my identity. He'd get angry, and he'd leave me.

* * *

And yet, we still went to a posh room in the hotel. It was huge, modern, and newly converted. It was open planned, and had a universal remote for everything – the TV, the curtains, even the lights. Ron was playing with it for hours, lying on bed. He gorged out on mini fridge, asking if he thought we'd have to pay for this. He settled, finally, watching TV, like a child.

I just watched him, lost of words. Mortified.

When there was a knock at the door, I hurried to answer it, just for something to do. When I opened it, I was surprised to see Blaise stood there. He smiled in greeting, and then passed me a big red box, with a bow on it. With a wink, he left me – and I stood there, a frown appearing on my face.

I walked back inside, shutting the door behind me, and opening the box. Of course I knew what it was. It didn't stop me from being shocked though.

The beautiful, fifties, vintage dress, wrapped in silk, with a note on the top.

_Wear it to the ball room tonight. I hope to see you there. _

I was stunned. I lifted it out of the box, as though it were a bomb. It floated in my hands, and I wondered if it was not, in fact, metaphysical being rather than dress.

"What is it, baby?" said Ron, then his jaw dropped when he saw me hugging the dress around myself. "Wow... baby... is it a gift from Draco?"

I nodded. "He wants us to come to the ball room tonight."

"Oh..." I was waiting – I even, half wanted – the abuse to spiral out. The _well he didn't get me anything, _the, _oh, that guys a creep, let's leave! _The, _how dare he buy my wife something, he needs to be taught a lesson! _

It didn't come.

"That was nice of him. We'll have to go, of course. It's a shame... I wanted to watch the football. Ah well... you'll have to bathe, baby."

"And so will you." I replied, but I made a beeline for the bathroom first. I needed time with my thoughts.

I closed the door behind me, and ran the bath. I tried not to be worried about the fact that it was well stocked with beautiful smells, and jells and honey's. I poured some herbal stuff into the bath and watched the bubbles fizz. It was a beautiful bath too – huge, and miles long. The tiles were a beautiful tanned marble, the shower, walk in, on the other side.

I slid into the tub, and then dunked my head, half-wishing I could stay there, before my natural instincts to breathe took over. The delicious smell of the lavender made me feel as though I could stay there all day.

Unfortunately, however, I couldn't. I had to get Ron bathed and ready – doing that, at least, took my mind of what was to come. So I got out of the bath, and, to my surprise, found him ready to go. He was dressed in a suit, and another box was next to him.

"This came for me! Boy they sure look after you here! And look, baby, these are yours." He pushed the box towards me, and I looked inside.

A pair of black high heels. Not too high, not too low. The perfect height to walk in, and the perfect height with the dress.

How was he not bothered? Did he honestly think this hotel took care of all its customer's so well? That it gave out thousand pound-dresses and shoes? Why was he not freaking out on me?

Why didn't he care?

He just sat, drinking his beer and watching the football.

I could have cried.

We emerged in the ballroom together, and I pleaded that Ron would hold his ale tonight. It was huge, and we blended in here, in our disguises. My beautiful dress, and Ron's suit. We walked through the crowd – of course, Ron saw an advantage for free food, and before I could plead with him to not leave me, he left.

And he swooped in.

He was just stood there, as though he was always there.

"You look ravishing." I wasn't sure if I liked the way he said that or not. The way it made me feel. Half like an object, half something very desirable.

"Thank you. It's your dress, though, not mine," I replied.

"It won't fit me." He laughed in return. I was trying to avoid his gaze, but it was difficult. It was as though they were enticing – even, daring – me to look into them. "But I was right. You do look beautiful in it."

"Anyone can look beautiful if you spend enough money on them." I returned. We both knew my words had more meaning.

"No, they can't." He disagreed. The pleasantries had vanished.

"Money can't buy everything, you mean?" I replied, daring to look straight into his eyes.

"Oh," he smirked, "It can buy the majority of things."

My face didn't move an inch. "Not everything."

"No?" he said; his pitch was bright, breezy... but underneath, something was smouldering. Burning. "I disagree."

"I thought you might." I returned.

He smiled, and then, as Ron walked in, I felt like I'd actually encountered God, for I felt as though I'd met my saviour. He drunkenly offered Draco his hand, and extended his compliments to our financial benefactor.

Draco smiled, and, using somewhat excellent people skills, shook his hand, asking how he was, how we liked the room... but it felt as though his eyes were still on me, still directly watching me.

I thought I might be going insane.

"I can't hear..." He said, then he laughed. "I'll tell you what, let's go out on the veranda. We can talk somewhere more private. Tell me, Ron, do you play pool?"

They went off, off into a private little balcony space where only a few people were talking. Tonight there were pool tables and a little bar there, although in the day there were obviously sun loungers.

There was a free pool table, so they set to work, beginning to play. Of course, Malfoy did each shot with flourish, and Ron with drunken clumsiness. They drifted through conversation – about Ron's plans, about land, about pool – about drinks. They chatted and talked, and drank, until the conversation began to decompose and anything could be socially acceptable.

"Okay, tell me honestly. Tell me this..." Malfoy said, polishing the end of his cue. "Do you – I mean, you personally... do you think you can buy love?"

Ron laughed, pretending to hit himself over the head with a pool cue. From my space at the side of the table, I looked up from my quiet reverie. What was he doing? He stared back, and I knew his drunken slur was nothing but the work of a talented actor, not a drunken man. No drunk man could keep his concentration so well.

"Well, what about you, Hermione?" Draco asked, walking over to me. I almost thought – since his hands were close together and he walked so purposefully –

But he stopped next to me, making another shot. I was ashamed to say I winced; his skin so close almost scorched me.

"No." I said, at once. "No, absolutely not."

"Not, hm." He said, then he smiled, looking back at me. "Interesting."

"Why is it interesting?" Ron asked him.

I sighed, why didn't he just leave it? Why wasn't he more perceptive? Why could he not tell that –

"Oh... it just gets lonely, sometimes." Said Draco, with an offhand shrug. "What, with someone as old as me..."

"You're not too much older than us." Said Ron, laughing. But you could see the adoration forming in Ron's eyes; it was almost comically amusing to watch, if I didn't feel so sick, I'd have laughed. If this man were to write a book which said, "How To Be A Millionaire Before You're Forty" Ron would have bought it.

"A fair bit. Ten years or so." Said Draco, "See," he moved on, steering the conversation. "See, you can never tell if the person loves you, or the money. So I figure, that buying it is actually the best way."

"Radix Malorum est Cupiditas." I muttered.

He looked up, surprised. "Money is the root of all evil?"

"Yes." I said, eyes wide with surprise. I didn't know he spoke latin. "Well – and no. It's 'cupiditas' which means 'cupidity' which is to love. So it's roughly translated as the _love _of money is the root of all evil-"

I watched as his gaze travelled towards a very drunk, very happy, Ron.

"Doesn't mean it's right, though." I added quickly.

He smirked, flashing those white teeth. He didn't have to say anything more - I stared at my shoes, ignoring the deep shame I was feeling.

"In fairness," Ron interrupted, just as I was about to argue back, "you can afford to pay for it."

"I can," he said, then he smiled, "Which brings me to a proposition."

"Oh..." Ron's eyes lit up. "What kind?"

"I'll offer you both," he said, "One million pounds if your wife spends one night with me. Just one night, where she stops belonging to you, and becomes mine. The next day, she's yours and I'll never borrow you both again, and your free to leave with the million."

I stared at him. My jaw dropped – and so did Ron's.

"Wh-what?"

"One... million..." Ron's lips traced the words. No! He was brainwashing him.

"Go to Hell!" I said, at once.

He shrugged, "I'm already there." His eyes found mine, "I've nothing to lose."

"No..." Ron said, he shook his head, confused. "No, that's impossible."

"That's correct," Draco said, clearly. "I will offer you one million pounds for a night with your wife. What do you say?"

"He says go to hell!" I said, walking around the table to Ron; I looked at him, horrified, as his face really didn't say that.

"Right... yeah." Ron said. He turned to Draco. "One million pounds?"

"We're not considering this!" I cried, "This is madness. I married you!"

"There are ways of getting around that though. My lawyers are already set up, if you want to sign –"

"No, we don't, because it's not happening." I snapped.

"Oh, well..." he was as imperceptibly bright as always. "When you change your mind, call me on _this –" _He put his business card in the middle of the table, "Number. For the time being, goodnight!"

And away he walked.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
We watch the stars

I wanted to leave. I had never been more desperate to leave anywhere in my life – but Ron was too drunk to go home, and I couldn't afford a cab. So, until the morning, we were stuck there. I was angry at Draco. He'd done this plainly on purpose, and by design. I felt like I was amongst a battle... I felt like an object. I felt cheap.

I slid into bed; but rather than snoring off, his eyes were open, staring forwards. Suddenly, he burst out of his statuesque stillness and stared at me.

"Let's not pretend either of us is going to sleep tonight, 'Mione." He said, running a hand through his hair.

I sighed. For a few moments we both sat there in bed, in the dark, staring forwards. The money circulating our brains like currents. It was ambition which drove through our bodies like blood. It pumped and thrived; imagine what we could do with that money. We could pay off the bank entirely. We'd never have to worry about debts; we could build the house Ron wanted, and live comfortably in it forever.

We could have the family that I wanted.

We could be happy.

But I'd be selling myself. I'd be selling my body.

"It's just you." Ron said, carefully. "It's just your body. Not your soul, not your allegiance."

"Its more than that. And you know it." I said back.

"It doesn't have to be. Only if we let it. What should we care if some stupid business man wants to... wants to..." Ron swallowed. He couldn't bring himself to say it. "Wants to... fuck... you?"

His voice broke. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. _I'm not for sale. _

_Money can buy the majority of things. _

_But I'm not for sale. _

"It wouldn't buy my love." I said, concisely. I turned and found Ron's eyes. "It couldn't. You need me too much."

He sighed, and I felt his lips on my forehead. "I can't make you do this, Hermione. We..."

"We need the money." I whispered. I could feel my eyes sting with tears. "We need the money. And imagine what we could do with the money. The money..."

"Everything we ever wanted. I know." He said; I could hear his voice breaking with emotion. "I know. But I don't want to..."

"Sell me?" I asked, I tried to laugh. "It's okay, Ron. I'm selling myself. But just my body... that's all this is."

"So do you want to do it?"

I paused. The truth was that I didn't. The truth was that somewhere inside me, I knew this felt wrong and dangerous and weird and... and as though if I did it, it would be the end. Because I didn't belong to Malfoy, I belonged to Ron. The very permanent ring on my finger told me that, and when I took that vow, I meant it. I had always meant it.

And now that vow was going to be broken.

We needed that money. He needed that money, and I had to help him make his dreams come true. We had suffered so much crap for so long, that this could have been our new start. This could have been our new everything, only for the small price of a night with a billionaire.

Except... it was so much more than that.

It was me who rang him. I picked up the phone while Ron was showering that morning, and as soon as I put it to my ear, I was grateful that I didn't have to suffer the agonizing wait for him to pick up while I battled my instincts.

"Hello?"

I waited. I needed to find the words to say, but I couldn't... he and I were past pleasantaries.

"You have a deal."

It was as though I could see that flash of white teeth, and I could feel his breath on me when he said, "I knew I did. I'll send my lawyers over this morning. Be ready for tonight."

* * *

The lawyers came as soon as Ron was out of the shower. He was a small balding man, with greedy hands which he rubbed habitually together, cliché's aside. His suit didn't hide what he was anymore than those huge, jam jar glasses obscured his vision. He was a greedy lawyer, who I immediately disliked.

He was here to separate us for 24 hours.

He sat down and explained it all to us. It was perfectly legal – he could file for a divorce, and then remarry us in the eyes of the law. I said that was impossible, he grinned and said nothing was impossible with enough money.

I resisted the urge to be sick.

He handed us both a piece of paper. It was full of some weird documentation, lots of tiny print and stuff – I didn't want to read it. I didn't want this to be real, so I signed the bottom line with flourish. Ron, however, was curious. He demanded to know what every detail meant, although I didn't want him to – I didn't want to hear anymore. I just wanted them to cuff me and take me wherever the hell it was. It was painful enough already. I was a prisoner from the moment I walked in the hotel.

When there was nothing left to explain, Ron signed. He passed the document to the lawyer, and we looked at one another.

We were separated. We were apart.

For the first time in our lives, pretty much, we were not together.

It was empty. Hollow almost. It was like something had been pushe din between us – some cavernous thing which could never be filled again.

"Right," said the laywer, brightly. "I think its time you and I went, Miss Granger."

I looked up at the use of my maiden name; and then back to Ron. The hurt in his eyes made it all the worse.

I looked wordlessly at the Lawyer who hummed to himself, putting the paperwork into his briefcase and clearly – even, tactfully for one so digusting – letting us have our moment.

I ran towards him and kissed him, wishing my lips could claim his forever; even though that millisecond our lips connected felt like even less than that – before the Lawyer began to walk away, and I had to follow.

I felt like a woman facing the gallows.

My legs were shaking. My heart was beating.

I was alone.

"Hermione..."

I turned, and looked at Ron. He had never looked so lonely, or so helpless.

"Come back to me."

I nodded, and tried not to let the tears flow.

* * *

I was enormously sea-sick anyway, but I'd never felt worse in my life. The Lawyer and I had gotten into a limo, which, after driving for a few hours, finally finished outside the marina. I vaguely knew where we were – I think Ron and I had come here in our youth. Either way, the Yacht waited, its steps inviting me inside.

I nodded my pretend thanks at the Lawyer who grinned back, and climbed on. I was surprised – even sickeningly flattered by what he had done. Rose petals – lots of them – guided me towards another set of steps to the left. I went down them, until I appeared in a bedroom.

It was huge, and cavernous, and so was its bed. A flat screen TV Ron would have swapped his soul for, was on the wall, and Rose petals dusted the bed. A note was there – I walked towards it, and, shaking, picked it up in my hands.

I expected maybe a goading, or gloating message. Instead I had this:

_Found your way, I hope. I wondered if the roses were too much... I'll be upstairs when you want to come find me. Probably out on the deck, looking at the stars. _

Looking at the stars... I went to look outside the window, although, it occurred to me that I was underwater, so I couldn't. I knew when I had climbed aboard it was sunset. The stars would be with us shortly.

I knew why he had done this – it was to test my daring, my free will. He and I had signed a legal contract – either way, I was "fulfilling my needs, to which he returned with £1,000,000" or whatever that stupid contract said. I don't know. I wished I could think of Ron, of home, but that was painful. For tonight I'd decided to be someone different. That way I wouldn't be cheating, even if I was no actress.

I knew I had some time to get ready, and I also knew – even before I checked – that the closet was full of wearable clothes, conveniently in my size. I opened the draws – lots of lingere, lots of expensive lace and bodices. I knew he'd had a hand in this, probably with expert help. He seemed to like the colour black on me.

I liked the colour black on me today.

I stripped and pulled on a black bodice, and then over that, a long black, silky dress. Its slit up to the thigh was more revealing than I was used to – but again, I wasn't me tonight. I was his.

I slipped on a pair of heels – if I'm not mistaken, the same ones he had sent at the hotel, and steadied myself at an inviting table for balance. I shook with nerves. Actual nerves? I was always so matter of fact when seducing Ron. This was almost amusing.

I didn't feel like wearing make-up. I felt cheap enough already. You could dress me in as many expensive clothes as he wanted, and I'd still feel plastic and cheap and fake.

I'd still feel like shattering.

I just pulled my hair up into a bun with a beautiful little diamond scrunchie type thing which was there, using one of the hairbrushes, and then squirted myself with perfume. I inspected myself before leaving.

Plain old Hermione Granger, eh? Not tonight. Tonight I was beautiful. I was desired. I belonged amongst the stars.

I stood there, not critical, like usual, but complimenting myself. I could do this, I could get this over with. I'd already swore not to enjoy it.

Before I knew it, I was walking towards the upstairs. It was a bar, full of empty chairs at empty tables. I walked in, looking around. Candles lit each table, and it created a beautiful cast on the room. I realised where the beautiful sound of piano was coming from; a man in a tux was sat playing, although, evidently, he had no audience.

He nodded kindly at me as I passed him, and I smiled back. It was about the nicest thing I think anyone had done for me in hours... not that I particularly deserved it.

The deck was filled with the same candle-lit atmosphere. It was beautiful and soft, and it radiated his extravagance before I even saw him. Of course, he knew I'd arrived, but he didn't turn around. He was staring at the indigo sky, and the milky pepper of stars. It was beautiful. Tonight, I stood amongst them.

I walked over to him steadily, and leant against the same railing as he did, expectantly. We both stood there for a while, complimenting the sky in a strange, companionable silence. It reflected on the wide ocean waves beautifully stark and white.

"I was worried you might not come." He said, gently.

"No you weren't." I replied, curtly. "You knew what you were doing."

"I didn't, believe it or not." He said, "I assumed he was wise enough not to let you out of his sight." He turned, and I felt his hand float towards my face. The moonlight illuminated his beautifully – he was like a carving. "If you were mine, I'd never let you out of my sight. Not even for a second."

I swallowed the feelings I had told myself not to feel away, and stared back at him, stonily. "Don't judge him. You've no right."

"That's true." He said, eyes blue and deep. He was doing it again – looking through me. I had forgotten how to speak. He suddenly pulled away and stared back into the ocean, the white reflection of the pale moon. "But I do anyway."

"You shouldn't." I whispered. "You still knew what you were doing..."

"Oh please." He said, and he actually laughed. "You're much more valuable that £1,000,000..."

"So you got a bargain. Is that was your saying?" I felt my voice break. The Hermione I'd tried to leave behind broke through – the cheap, bought Hermione came out.

He stared at me, and you couldn't doubt the honest hurt in his eyes. "No. I won't pretend I didn't use everything in my power to have you. Even if it was just for a night."

"Why? Why me?" I asked him. I felt my tears sting.

He went to say something, and then stopped himself, as though mentally telling himself to stall. He then continued, "Because I wanted you."

"Women are obviously so disposable to you," I spat.

He laughed. He actually laughed at my ferocious spur of hatred.

"You think I have to buy women?" He asked; he was entertained. He looked indulgently at me, as though he could watch me be so very angry all night long and be satisfied.

"Yes," I said, dimly. "Why else would you buy me?"

He laughed, praising the heavens, and then walked towards me, finding my hand. I let him take it in his, and again, I found his eyes without consciously meaning to.

"I bought you because you said you couldn't be bought," he said, and one hand found my face. I tried not to let the electricity start to pump through my veins.

I stared at him, and I knew a tear had escaped.

The truth was I was scared. A scared little girl. How could he possibly want me?

"You are beautiful," he whispered, as though answering my inaudible question. I felt his lips press against my face, and I exhaled, feeling the tension begin to leave my body.

"You might even enjoy it." He whispered in my ear, pressing his lips against my neck.

"I won't," I hissed, but I'd lost my malice. I was biting my lip, trying to focus on something else – _anything else – _with little success.

"I think you will." He whispered, with that deep chuckle. Then he pressed his lips against mine.

I felt my hands - fighting every promise I'd made - run into his hair; my lips press against his insistently, then allowing him to leave me, just to press his lips against my neck, my face – my cheekbones...

"I... This is wrong..."

"Because you told yourself you wouldn't enjoy it." He mused; his voice was a deep rumble. It was burning with passion, with intoxication. He pulled away, and with a smile, said, "Relax. Nothing is going to happen that you don't choose. Besides which," he put his hand on my face again, and found my eyes, "Tonight, you're mine."

I considered his words as he pressed his lips against my throat – and then the considering was done and forgotten as his hands climbed over my dress. I felt my own hands begin to fist at his suit jacket – just out of curiosity, just wondering what it felt like to run my hands over his chest...

He was kissing me as though the world was ending - but with it, there was gentleness, a sincerity. A shared sense of giving. Each kiss told me it was going to be okay, and it was as though each one was for my benefit instead of his. At times, he'd climb into a passion and then have to restrain himself until I let him go on. If anything, he was a real gentleman. I trusted him, bizarrely, in the end.

I chose everything.

His hands were at my shoulders when he pulled away. At the two straps of my dress. His eyes burned with what he wanted – burned so that he didn't have to ask, before I put my hands on his, and slid the dress off my shoulders, and it pooled around the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

_**This is quite a lengthy chapter, so my apologies for that. But I hope you enjoy - as ever, thank you for the reviews and the support. To the unsigned reviews in particular - who I couldn't get back to personally - thank you!  
So, without further ado...**_

Chapter 5

I try to buy our life back

"...Drunk himself into a stupor, mainly. The idiot." Ron's eyes flickered, and I watched from the edge of our bed. "When I got here, all I found were millions of empty bottles and him pretty much unconscious."

"I appreciate it, Ginny. I do."

"He normally has you to look after him, in fairness." Said Ginny, and then her eyes went into a suspicious glare. "Where were you, out of interest?"

"Oh," I said, feeling my face redden. _Fucking someone else, mostly. _"Urm... I went out for..."

Ron gave a silly inaudible mumble about something, and I looked up. He was clutching the side of the bed, sitting up, like Dracula just rose from his coffin. His hair was plastered against his face, his eyes deep in their sockets, bloodshot, even though he had been asleep for hours.

I didn't know where he got the money from to buy the drink. I was worried he'd done something stupid like sold his kidney, since he looked ill enough. However, he was murmuring and pointing next to him – on the floor?

No. Under the bed.

"Ginny." I felt my voice go funny, because I knew what he was pointing to. "Go and get Ron a cold flannel..."

She left, but I knew she wasn't happy about it. I knew Ginny too well, and she was too perceptive – she knew me too well too. So I waited until I could hear the cold water running in the kitchen before I bent down and let my hands find the black bag and drag it out, listening to the sound against the worn carpet.

I knew what was inside before I opened the zipper. Before I opened it. Before I could see the hundreds of tens and twenties. Before I could see anything.

He'd sent the million to our apartment. Of course he'd sent it in cash. That was his style; but he'd sent it to us. More directly, he'd sent it to Ron.

So Ron would get drunk.

So I would leave him.

I remembered something he whispered to me last night, curled up in his arms. _No one said I would fight fair... this isn't over._

It never would be over. That was the moment when I understood that _his _money poisoned this relationship like the true "elephant" in the room. He had done it on purpose to remind me that I was owned by him.

It made my skin crawl.

What could I do, other than think nothing of it? Subconsciously ignore it and hope it – along with him – went away. That night had passed, and I wanted the new life my ambition had imagined to begin.

But, as I looked at my husband, snoring away in bed, I think a part of me knew we'd never move away from this.

I just remember zipping up that bag and pushing it under the bed, before Ginny emerged, suitably unsuspicious.

* * *

When Ron woke up things weren't the same. In fact, for days, we didn't speak to one another. For days, the money stank under the bed. For days and days. Not because we didn't know of its existence – of the contrary, it burned us like he had burned everything.

Like he had burned that night on the inside of my skull.

It got lonely. It got to the extent where I didn't speak to anyone all day. I turned up at the office, I showed some clients some houses using all the practiced lines, "it's very spacious." And "It's got a fantastic view" but since that night I was no actress. My sales had dropped 100%. I no longer dominated my work. Instead I worried about going home, worried about him not being there, worried about worrying.

Worried about him coming home in the middle of the night, and slithering in bed next to me, even though we were both wide awake, and we both knew we were. I worried that he was out with someone else. That he had found someone else to take care of him.

And that killed me.

I'd always been okay with our arrangement. I'd always enjoyed taking care of him, and in return, he was loyal to me. That arrangement worked.

But he stopped being loyal to me, and he stopped looking at me. He was never home in time, he was never home until the early hours of the morning, which I spent staring at the ceiling, worrying about him.

I was ashamed to admit that after a while he became secondary. I was starved of contact to the extent where only my last encounter with Malfoy was on my mind. Sometimes my mind would drift back to the way his hands ran over my body, the way his lips consumed mine.

It was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

He had tried to contact me. He'd found out what my number was, and he'd been ringing me. In fact, I was terrified that he'd turn up at work one day, and I'd be stuck. If he was a customer, I'd have to serve him, despite my hatred for him.

Was it hatred? Did I hate him? Could I even hate him, after what we shared? I'm not sure even now how I feel about that night. He made me feel like a woman, not an object, despite the fact that I was bought. The confusion and contrast infuriated me.

I'd find myself going in circles, and at each conclusion, I told myself to stop thinking about him, only to start again. The pressure of Ron, off with someone else; the pressure of work, the pressure of him contacting me...

It was too much.

To top it all off, Ginny and I had become to get much closer; since he was off out every night, for the first time in my life, I had time to speak to a friend. Ginny found me a more than willing participant, after days of very little contact.

And the truth was that I was so very very lonely that I was more than willing to listen.

Ginny had a problem. She had fallen in love with a man who was perfect for her in every respect – who loved her, cared for her, even provided for her in many aspects.

It's just that, the problem was... he was married.

With kids.

"He found me again today," Ginny told me, one night. I poured myself some more wine, the phone to my ear.

"Again?"

"At work. I was on my break, and he found me." Ginny took a deep breath. "He came into the locker room and we... you know..."

"No, not really." I said, laughingly. I just wanted her to say it, to be fair. I'd had too much wine.

"We _did it, _Hermione," she said, just the right blend of serious and amused. She broke out into laughter with me, until we finally stopped.

"He's never going to leave her, is he?"

I paused, considering her words.

"Probably not, Gin." I said, truthfully.

"Right." She said, "I know you're right."

"But you love him too much to leave?"

There was a pause, just a caught breath amidst her sobs. "Yes."

I knew because I felt the same.

* * *

For the fifth time, the "LATE PAYMENT" notice had come through the letter box. I sighed, staring at the blaringly red writing. It wasn't as though we couldn't afford now, it was just I was unwilling to touch that money... That... _his money, _I mean.

I then realised that maybe it was silly to be so reluctant. If I bit the bullet, went to the bank with the money; then maybe it would help win Ron back. Turning this festering money into something good, maybe even something great – maybe show him that, that night with Malfoy meant nothing to me.

That he meant everything to me.

The phone rang again, and I knew who it was before I picked it up – not that I picked up the phone anymore.

"_Hermione, I've been trying to contact you. Ever since you ran away that night. I woke up and you'd vanished. I want to check you're okay. I've been trying to find you for days – tracing your number... please, contact me..."_

I unplugged the phone from the wall, suddenly, and practically slapped it off the stand. It landed on the floor, and I stared at it, like it was a rabid, screaming animal. In many ways it was – his voice had stopped on the phone, but not on the floor. I willed for my tears not to escape, and with the letter still in my other hand, I knew what to do.

To show Ron the money was worthless. To show him we could turn something so awful into something great.

I got the money – the entire bag of £1,000,000 – and pulled on my shoes. I was only in my traditional joggers and sloppy T-shirt, but I was that desperate I didn't really care. Trainers on, I pulled on my rain coat and slipped outside onto the muggy London street. The rain was spattering onto the floor from the leaks in the roof.

Of course Mrs. Figg arrived just in time. When I was busy and really didn't feel like talking, my slightly-batty old neighbour came out of her little apartment. I shouldn't really complain. The old dear endured enough of Ron and mine's drunken arguments. Plus I was beginning to think she and I had a lot in common – the fact that the only thing we had for company was dry-rot walls.

"Hello dear! I didn't know you were about! I'd have asked you round for tea."

"That would have been very kind Mrs Figg," I forced my voice into a kind little tone. "But I'm off out now..."

"Oh right! Well..." she didn't look at all dejected as she ambled back into her apartment mumbling. I stared into space, trying to keep my face the calm mask it was so excellent at being, rather than let it fall into the irritable expression I was resisting. When she emerged, her brown frizzy hair was sticking out at odd angles, and her stockings were around her ankles. She reminded me of an inverted Mrs Doubtfire. She was carrying a tray full of heavy looking cakes, "Take these, sugar. I've made them but I've no use for them."

I knew it was a tool to try and win friends – or rather, to solidify our relationship, and I was too kind hearted to say no.

So I took them, thanking her profusely, and walked back into the apartment, the bag still in one hand. I placed them on the side, and then ambled back out, locking the door behind me.

She was still stood there, smiling at me like I'd made her day, bless her.

"Anyway, Mrs Figg – thank you for the cakes. I'll erm..." I tried not to cry, "I'll make sure Ron gets some. It was lovely of you."

"It's okay, sweetie." She said, smilingly. She was too short-sighted and selfishly eager for contact to notice the break in my voice.

"Anyway," I said, "I have to go Mrs Figg," before I knew it, my feet were edging towards the stairs. "Thank you..."

"Anytime, love!" she shouted as I started to run downstairs three-at-a-time. "Anytime!"

I pondered something, as I escaped out onto the busy London street, and made my way to town to visit the bank. I realised that Mrs Figg foreshadowed what I was going to become, when Ron finally came to his senses and left me.

It was all my fault.

* * *

"What do you mean, 'the lot has been bought'?"

The estate agent was sat there, staring levelly at me. Her hands were folded on the desk, and her suit jacket was crisp and sharp. She tilted her head to the side, studying me like I was some sort of animal behind a cage in a zoo. I had to admit I looked like one, in my joggers and T-shirt and trainers, with my greasy hair scraped back.

"What it says on the tin, pretty much." She said, pushing her glasses up her nose. "It was bought two weeks ago; since you'd missed so many payments we felt no problem in letting it go. Did you give us a deposit?"

"Yes, we borrowed from the bank." Well, he borrowed.

"Then we can return it directly to the bank. No harm done."

I stared at her, mouth in a comical "O". All that debt – vanished, like smoke. Just as you'd grasped it firmly, it diffused into the air.

"But... I had the money today. I've been to the bank, deposited it in my account. I was ready to buy it outright-"

"Someone beat you to the punch, I'm afraid." She said, with a shrug.

"How large was their offer? I can beat it."

She sighed, empathetically. "I doubt it."

"I'll give you £1,000,000." I said, clearly and concisely. "£1,000,000 if you give it to me."

She stared at me, and to my own horror, she looked unsurprised.

Then I twigged. Then I realised.

I leaned forwards, teeth clenched tightly shut, and said, "He offered you more than that didn't he?"

She stared into my eyes piteously, and nodded. "He gave us £2,000,000 to promise us not to sell it back to you. What can we say? Mr Malfoy is one of our best clients."

That was why she was studying me, and that was why she wouldn't give it to me. A stretch of abandoned, disused land was now owned by him. Just like he owned everything else.

I was furious.

"Where is he?"

She sighed, "He said you'd ask."

"Where is he?" I repeated again. My voice was a deadly whisper.

"He's at dinner with some cliental at the casino-"

I got up, and marched out of the doors.

* * *

When I saw him amongst his little rich friends, I could feel my fury sizzle to its optimum. An optimum so powerful that I walked past the expectant waiter who wanted to know if I wanted a table; I walked past these billionaires in their dinner jackets and rich foods, and I strolled straight up to his table, where he was talking in fluent Spanish to two expectant and important looking businessmen.

It was Blaise who saw me coming, who muttered in his ear just as I reached them. His face lit up and then faded into anxiety. It was when another waiter in his stupid little bow tie came with a table of drinks that I snapped. Before I knew it, like some nervous twitch, my hand had escaped and the drinks jumped everywhere, and flew into the air. The glass smashed all over them – but mostly all over me – raising gashes and cuts on my exposed arms.

"YOU-FUCKING-PRICK!" I was screaming, as Malfoy calmly slid out of the booth, muttering something to his businessmen, and then turning to me.

I never really appreciated how strong he was. I was trying to hit him, wriggling like a kitten who'd been picked up by the scruff of its neck; he simply slid his arms under mind and picked me up like a toddler having a tantrum, and carried me out of the restaurant, as I cussed, cursed and foamed vile speech at him.

I could hear Blaise soothing over the situation, and the restaurant exploded into anxious laughter. I was repulsed – they didn't know what he'd done to me. They didn't know what he'd done to Ron and I. I was shaking and spitting and kicking until I could do no more.

We finally emerged outside, and he felt I was calm enough to be let go of. I shook myself free of him, and paced away from him as he followed me.

"You stole it." I turned around and stared at him, my breathing heavy. I pushed my hair away from my face, and felt the tears sting. "You fucking – fucking _stole it!"_

"No, I didn't." He said, immediately. He was stood there, looking as handsomely composed as always. "I left that Estate Agent my calendar for the next month, knowing you'd come and find me..." he pulled some glass out of his hair, "Didn't know you'd make that much of an explosive entrance."

"This isn't funny," I spat.

"No, it's not." He agreed, gravely. "But I didn't steal it."

"You did! You _knew _that was our property! You knew that was Ron's dream! You _knew-"_

"I knew nothing." He insisted. He tried to grab my hand, but I shook his contact away. I felt like a trapped animal, pacing up and down, encaged in my fury. "Look, the fact remains that you had the right instincts, you had the right money, but you just were out of time!"

"Out of time?" I screeched. "Out of time? Only because you fucking bought before we could decide what to do with that festering money of yours..." I paused, turning towards him. "I'll buy it back from you."

He laughed, as though the idea was preposterous to him. "Oh yes? With what? You can't afford it."

"Try £1,000,000." I replied, promptly.

He was smiling now, with that infuriating grin. "Price is £2,000,000."

"Oh yeah!" I cried, "And I bet if I had 2 mill, the price would be 4, right?"

"Why – yes, as a matter of fact," he was laughing, and he walked towards me. His two hands slithered to find mine. I was forced to look into his eyes again, by that strange mystic, tangible force that seemed to hover over my every meeting with him. "This is irrelevant. We both know why you're here, why you came..."

"No," I spat; admittedly I didn't move out of his arms. "No we both don't!"

"You came because something keeps you coming back here. Something keeps you coming back to me." He said, intensely. His gaze was so cold, and so warm, and so deep. It was like drowning. I'd lost my air supply, and what was left was the primal function to look into his eyes.

I shook my head, "You're wrong. You're fucking wrong."

"I'm not." He whispered, his hand moving up towards my face. "You know I'm not."

His fingers were gently pushing away the escaped hairs on my face, tracing my lips with his thumb. I felt my eyes close even though I'd been resisting the urge to remember that night which irrevocable strength. Just the way he traced his thumb over my lips made me remember, remember those feelings I didn't want to feel. Remember watching the sunset over the sea, and all the things I had whispered to him, curled up in his arms.

Remember...

"You – you ruined..." I tried to say it, but he interrupted.

"I ruined nothing." He whispered. I could hear the experience, the life behind the mask of the billionaire in that one sentence. "I gave you what I promised. You heard me say I wouldn't fight fair..."

"Why fight at all?" I asked him. My eyes shot open, and I stared at him, feeling the tears spill.

His smile, his beautiful smile was like the sunset. "Because I want you."

"You don't." I whispered. "You don't!"

"I do." He said, "And I will until my last breath. I feel it..."

"You feel sick." I tried to pull away from him, but he was insistent, and he managed to pull my closer. "Get off me."

"I would if I thought you meant it." He said, and the amusement was back. "If you meant it, I would."

"I mean it! I MEAN IT! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!"

He smirked, and removed his hands back to his sides.

"Hermione..." he said, levelly. "I have another deal for you."

"What kind?" I asked, heartbroken again. "What now? Do you want to spoil my marriage anymore than you already have? Do you want to make Ron even more of an alcoholic? Oh, but anything, as long as you get me? You're selfish, Draco!"

He looked complacent, calm. "Yes, I am." He said, acceptingly.

I stared at him like his lights had gone out.

"But so is your husband. A husband who doesn't recognise your dreams, your talents, your accomplishments; a husband who lets you waste your life as an Estate Agent while he gets to live his. I did more good than harm in giving you that money, Hermione. I gave you an escape!"

"What if I don't want to escape?" I cried, "Don't you understand? I've always had Ron! If I don't have Ron, I don't have anything!"

"You do! You could have me!" he said, his face full of purpose, of truth. "You could always have me!"

I stared at him, my face full of angst, of emotion. "You... will never have me." I hissed.

He nodded, "I know." His tears were tangible, were streaking down his face just as mine were. "I didn't do it for me... I like to think I did. But I didn't, I did it for you."

"Then you clearly hate me as much as I hate you!" I screamed.

"You don't hate me." He said, that smile coming back in spite. "You never hated me. You only wish you did."

"You're wrong."

"I'm not." He whispered, "I have a deal... please, Hermione... come and work for me."

"_Work _for you?" I cried, "What?"

"Work for me. Help me close deals. You could be brilliant – you could help me –"

"You have Blaise for that!"

"But I want you." He said.

We both stood there, staring at one another. The billionaire, asking for me to work for him. To earn billions... accept now, money had turned into something wildly insignificant; something violently poisonous. Now money was the evil.

And he had infected it.

I stared at him, and felt the tears begin to flow, hot and heavy.

"You will never have me." I hissed, "And we both know why you want me to work for you. And we both know it won't work."

"You don't know until you try –"

"I do," I said, and I turned away from him, away from his grasp. "I do, and I won't."

And before I knew it – I had turned, and run away.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_**Yay for sub-plots! This is written from Blaise's perspective. I nearly did this in the first-person, but I felt it might get a bit confusing, so I've gone back to what I do best with Blaise! **_

_**Please tell me what you think; I apologise for the (very probable) spelling mistakes. It's pretty late and I'm reallllyyy tired!  
Anyway - Enjoy! **_

_BLAISE_

I admit an addiction

_**Malfoy's office**_

"I sincerely doubt, Draco..."

"Blaise," Draco said, gently. He was sat on the other side of the desk, fingertips together, staring at his best friend intently. "I appreciate your insight, but I don't necessarily need it."

Blaise paused, intently for the most part. Draco's office was huge, and dusty volumes of books lined the walls (mostly, because they'd never been read and were purely there for show). His massive, modern desk was at the cutting edge of Japanese design. In truth, he hardly ever came into the office – he employed men just like his old best friend to buy into things and make him money, which, for the most part, they did.

With Malfoy's elicit permission, Blaise usually manned Malfoy's desk – unless he came into work to query his best friend.

Except today, he wasn't querying him; it was the other way around.

"Look, I know you _think _you love her –"

"There's no _think_ about it," Malfoy said, looking at his desk and signing some paperwork. His position next to his boss, and best friend, illustrated precisely his dilemma. He didn't want to upset him, as, after all, it was Draco who had given his best-friend such a well paid job, and Draco who could take it away. But he didn't want to see his best friend – and his boss – humiliated professionally by some silly woman.

"Right." Blaise said, quickly. "But – Malfoy – no offence, you've only known her five minutes..."

"And your point?" Malfoy said. He sounded amused.

Blaise paused, chewing over how best to say the hurtful words that bit back in response. "... It's just... it's just... she is..."

"Ah, you're referring of course to the mess she made with those two Spanish businessmen..." Malfoy said, laughing.

Blaise looked irritated. "Mr Machi and Mr Lopez..."

"Right," said Malfoy, with as much charm to suggest he both really cared and knew them personally. "Blaise..."

"Look, I know you think she's amazing." Said Blaise, wearily, "And I think it's great. But Draco – you have to wonder if it's really _her _you're in love with."

"Why?" Draco asked. He was still amused. "Who else would I be?"

"You're in love with the idea of her." Blaise said, as though happy at having permission to let this fact out. Malfoy considered, tilting his head in that customary way he did, that charming little smirk on his face. This charming little face made Blaise annoyed – he knew him so well, he knew he was indulging him like he indulged so many of his friends. But Blaise decided since he had begun, he could hardly stop now, so he continued, trying his best to keep his temper. "You're lonely. You're sick of women who want you for your money... now you maybe like this woman, but you've paid for her to _claim her _or something, which is wrong, Draco..."

Draco sighed, and he ran a hand through his hair. Blaise knew at once that the charming businessman he showed to the world had now vanished and the real _boy – _not man, but boy – that he was beneath was there. That vulnerable looking, out-of-control little boy, who had invested his first couple of pounds into a little business, which went on to raise millions.

"I'll level with you, Blaise," Malfoy said, carefully. "I'll level with you. I'm tired."

Blaise blinked. This revelation was strange – ridiculous even. He was tired? "Then sleep."

"Not in that way." Malfoy sighed. To Blaise, Malfoy had always been so immortal that the possibility of his ever getting tired or ill seemed ridiculous. That said, Malfoy had never taken a day off in his life. Not even for Christmas, even though Blaise spent his with his wife and family. Blaise had always looked up to Malfoy – ever since he gave Blaise a job in the firm, and together they invested and made the Malfoy fortune. "I'm tired of being this..." Malfoy searched for the right word, then his eyes drifted back to his best friend. "... This face. This thing who owns a company. I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of having women on my arm who don't love me, and I'm tired of pretending. The truth is, I only want what you have. Your wife, your family; and the fact that I'm thirty and I don't have that, kills me."

Blaise stared at him, agog.

"But... you have..."

"What?" Malfoy laughed, back to the same charming being he always was, signing form after form with flourish. "Money? Riches? There are some things money can't buy..."

"But 'people' isn't one of them?" Blaise demanded to know.

Malfoy looked up. His friend's outburst was out of character – he was normally so respectful towards his mentor.

"I bought her," Malfoy said calmly, "But it's not for the reasons you might think –"

"Then why?" Blaise demanded. He was frustrated now. There were plenty of women – _plenty – _who had shown interest in his boss for all of these years. "You have women fainting to be with you, but only some floosy-"

"Don't call her that!" Malfoy snarled. The fierce, aggressive man that emerged was miles away from the man Blaise called his best-friend, who had always been so tender, so careful and so kind to him. It frightened him to see this charmless villain in his stead, looking at his best friend like he'd called her so much worse...

"You made her that," Blaise snapped. "You _bought _her, Malfoy. You didn't just..."

"I couldn't do anything else." Malfoy burst. He thumped the table, and stared levelly at his best friend. "I couldn't," Malfoy whispered, his eyes were truthful, as though he frequently told himself that. Maybe late at night, as he drifted into sleep, "She doesn't belong to him."

Blaise sighed, shaking his head. The sheer emotion that radiated from his best friend was something he hadn't seen in him for a long time. Not since...

"What gives you the right to decide?" Blaise asked, carefully. His eyes were on his friends.

"Don't you think I don't lie awake at night, wondering that?" Malfoy whispered. "Don't you think I don't know what I've done to her, to him? Do you think I'm _happy?"_

"I think you've done something selfish." Said Blaise, "I'm still your best friend, Malfoy. I'll always have your back – but you've done something irreversible to two innocent people, purely because of a passing fancy for –"

"Not just a passing fancy." Malfoy whispered. "I... I haven't felt this way since..." Malfoy let the sentence roll away.

And Blaise then understood.

* * *

The phone rang, and Blaise knew who it was before he even said "Hello". He knew who it was because he'd been thinking about her all day, despite his children who were hopping around his huge London town house, despite the fact that he needed to lure them into bed.

He ignored it; it was good job his wife was out, else Luna might've picked up the phone, and Ginny would have had to have covered again and pretend she was his assistant.

"Aren't you going to get that, Daddy?" asked Karen, as Blaise picked her up – his beautiful miracle of a little girl – and put her into bed with one arm, pulling the duvet over her. The phone was still ringing in the living room.

Blaise paused considering, as he picked up Imogen and put her into bed too.

Karen and Imogen were both twins, and they were both so incredibly beautiful. Blaise loved his two little girls more than anything. It was his insight which made passersby tell them apart – for Imogen's nose was a millimetre longer than Karen's and Imogen's hair was a slightly lighter shade of blonde than Karen's... it was only his eye, his admiring, indulgent eye (and perhaps his wife's) that could tell them apart from one another. And it was often his favourite thing to do, as a Father – to remark how much they were growing, and to savour their differences as well as their similarities.

He had loved them from the moment they were curled up in his wife's stomach, to the moment they were curled up in his arms. For them, he did everything. For them. Always for them.

"Not right now. It's just someone from work, Karen." Said Blaise.

Karen giggled as Blaise tucked both girls in, in turn. Imogen was currently going through a phase where she couldn't tell anyone anything – well, not too audibly. She had to whisper it in his ear for fear of the nargles coming to steal her voice.

It was her Mother's bed time stories, of course, and Luna had regretted telling the girls the things her Irish mother had told her as soon as Imogen began to hide her beautiful soprano. She tugged on Blaises' shirt to tell him something, and Blaise lowered his head to his daughters side as she whispered, "Daddy, will and nargles come tonight?"

"No, not tonight sweetie. Daddy will stay awake to fight them away for you." Blaise kissed his little girl sweetly on the forehead, and then turned to Karen, who was already rolling her sleeves up.

"No worries, Daddy. I'll get 'em."

Blaise had to resist the urge to laugh. Karen was his little tomboy. He was determined that one day she would like football – he and Ginny would probably get on one day.

A day which probably would never happen.

He pushed the thought from his mind, and kissed both his daughters on the head, before turning on a glittery fairy lamp and turning off the light – happy to see both girls were already, pretty much, asleep as he closed the door behind him.

The phone was still ringing when he got to the lounge. He dived to pick it up, and, of course, his suspicions were correct.

"Where have you been? I've been worried about you..."

Ginny. Blaise sighed, "Ginny, I've told you not to ring here unless its and emergency. I don't want Luna picking up the phone again..."

"So you always say," Ginny said, and he could hear the playful tone in her voice. Blaise couldn't stay angry at her – this woman who always listened to him, who made him feel wanted – wanted like he was fourteen again? Like he was an irresponsible teenager who could fuck in the locker room of a football club? "I'll have you know it is and emergency."

"Oh, yeah?" Blaise said, and his voice became that flirty lilt. "And what might that emergency be?"

"Just that I haven't heard your voice in four whole days," said Ginny, and then she laughed. "No, actually, I was worried. The last time we spoke you were on about your boss being off with some dumb blonde..."

"I misjudged him, in fairness." Said Blaise, and, at Ginny's silence, he added, "We had a heart to heart today."

"I see," Ginny replied, and she then added, "Did you just admit you were wrong about something?"

"Cheeky beggar," Blaise laughed, "Yes, I did... but no. I was wrong. I understand why he wants her so much now."

"Oh." Ginny was silent, before she added, "Why?"

Blaise considered a way to explain, but thought it was perhaps unwise. Malfoy's past was classified, and he didn't fancy leaking the information to anyone. God, they had paid of enough tabloids to not print the Malfoy tragedy story on its front page. "He... well, he loves her."

Ginny breathed heavily for a few moments, before she replied, "It is nice. To be loved. The fundamental human instinct."

"I disagree." Blaise whispered, "I think it's _needing _to be loved."

They both weren't talking about Malfoy's boss anymore, and they knew it.

"It's not wrong," Ginny whispered, "Needing to be loved isn't wrong."

"Yes, it is." Blaise whispered, "When you have so much at stake..."

"You have a wife and kids. A wife you don't love and kids you do – "

Blaise sighed, impatiently. "I thought we'd been through this."

"We have, and I'm fine with –"

"I can't leave Luna, Ginny. Not if it means leaving the girls, because I can't tear my family apart." He thought back to his two beautiful daughters. "I can't do that."

He could hear the torn sob from Ginny on the other end of the phone. "You should have thought of that before you fucked me, then."

And then she hung up.

* * *

When Luna came home, Blaise had been asleep on the sofa, trying to forget that phone call, even though it was impossible. He did regret fucking Ginny, and continuing to fuck her when he felt particularly at a lose end... he did regret ever making the poor girl – only seventeen to his twenty-five – making her fall in love with him. But it was a silly infatuation, he knew it would pass when she figured she was worth more.

And at that point, he would have nowhere to turn.

It hadn't started off like that. He just needed to be loved, because, being loved was selfish, and that's what he was. When the twins were born, Luna and he stopped sleeping together every five minutes and became parents. Yes, he loved his daughters, and he loved his wife, but he missed the contact. He missed being able to fuck whenever he wanted, and he missed being wanted.

Because being wanted was the fundamental flaw in human nature.

When his firm went to invest a small fortune into a women's amateur football club, he felt particularly depressed and at a lose end. He wondered if Luna still loved him, since they hadn't spoken in weeks, and as he sat there in the stands, he noticed the beautiful red head, running up and down the pitch, taking this game far too seriously.

He had looked at her for the entire game, entranced by her beauty, and it was when he came out and he was talking to their coach about investing, that she was introduced to him.

Ginny Weasley, team captain.

Ginny.

She shook his hand, and her brown eyes twinkled mischievously. "Alright, Mr...?"

"Zabini," I supplied, with what – before I even realised – was a winning smile.

"Mr Zabini," said Ginny, and her smile widened, "charmed."

They went out for a drink, discussing what at first was the team and then lead to each other, which, inevitably, led to drunken kissing. Before Blaise knew it, he had woken up the next morning, next to a seventeen year old.

And he had been unable to tear himself away from her since.

Yes it was wrong, he knew it was wrong. He felt guilty – his wife didn't run away with any strangers – she kissed him, told him she loved him, and could say so honestly without fault.

He couldn't though.

Ginny twisted those feelings inside him, and she distorted them. He didn't know how he felt about her, only that he was old enough to know better, only that around her, he felt alive. That around Luna, he felt like a husband, he felt 25. Around Ginny? He felt 18.

He forgot that he was a Father, a husband. He forgot he was the investor of a billion pound company. He even forgot that what he had, his boss would swap his soul for.

He forgot he forgot he forgot.

And he fucked and fucked and fucked.

He usually got drunk first, admittedly, and she would let him in, no questions asked – straight into her bed. He hated himself in the morning, because each time, he said he would pull away. He was trying, he really was. It's just, the problem was, Ginny was his drug, and he couldn't stay away. The rush was immediate, even if he felt awful in the morning.

She was too good to him. She looked after him, cleaned him up, let him sleep in her bed... and then understood – she didn't get angry at him – she understood, and let him slip away and break her heart again. He'd just walk through the door of his house, rubbing lipstick off his collar and pretended that he had been up all night at the office and had dropped in to see the girls.

Then he'd remember the girls, see his wife's understanding – just as Ginny's was – understanding glance, and he'd hate himself. He'd promise it would never happen again, and kiss his wife like the world was ending, and then he'd shower, and wish he could wash this alter-ego that emerged within him, away too.

But he never left, he just waited, dormant and ready.

So, when Luna came home that night, he stood up like a guilty school boy. Not that she noticed – she was slightly drunk, and often found her release on a Friday night out with the girls. She saw Blaise, and her face lit up.

"Hey baby!" she said, pretending they were seventeen again. In her mind, induced by lots of rosé, they were still in high school.

She crossed the room, and his hands slid against her ample waist. She wasn't fat – she never had been – but since having the girls she had put on weight. Of course, she was still sexy. As she always had been to him. Not that he could look at her that way without feeling guilty, without remembering that he preferred another in her place.

"Hey baby," he said softly. He kissed her flushed cheek and stroked her hair, gently. He was such a prick.

She however, was pissed. She gabbled about what a great night it was in that infamous, part-Irish lilt, and then asked for some more wine, saying something about pretending they were young again. "Come on baby," she slurred, "Let's be animals..."

Blaise tried to laugh; not that the idea wasn't appealing to him; it was. It's just his head wasn't in the right place; not after speaking to Ginny. Not so soon.

Not when he was comparing his wife's every move to his other lover.

He played along. When she was sober, they were always too busy to be intimate. So gently, and with a little humour, he replied, "How about no, baby? How about we go to bed?"

She raised a comical eyebrow. "Together?"

"How else?" Blaise asked, and he actually did laugh. A real laugh. "No, I think you need to sleep baby," he said, as she yawned, steeply. He then added something that escaped out of his mouth before he could reel it back in, "I know I'm not around much baby, but I'll try to be more often."

She finished yawning, and blinked a few times, sleepily smiling at him. "So I'll wake up in the morning, and you'll be there?"

Her blue eyes were piercing his hazel; Blaise felt suffocated with guilt. Like any drug-user, Ginny Weasley being the drug of choice, he knew he'd never give her up. He knew that was a moot point.

"Ye-Yeah," he whispered. His wife was too drunk to hear the pain in his voice, "Yeah, I'll be there."

"K." She sighed, "Man... my head..." she grumbled, sleepily pressing her fingers to her temples, not understanding the monumental importance of what she just asked him.

He caught her hands, intently finding her eyes. "I'll take you to bed, baby. You go on up, and I'll bring you some paracetemol."

She smiled at him gratefully and kissed his cheek, "Thank you baby. I'll see you up there." And off she went, sleepily climbing the stairs like she was hiking a mountain.

In the kitchen, however, Blaise tried to come up with a way of getting out this. How many business deals had he closed, how many times had he bought out partners?

Except, Blaise had discovered what his best-friend had yet to; that love was not a business deal, or anything that acquired great currency. When you had been with someone, you couldn't help but get attached to them.

Feelings made things complicated.

And complicated things had no room in business.

He stared at his reflection in the kitchen window as he poured his wife a pint of water, and retrieved the paracetemol.

"You're a shit human being, Blaise Zabini." He whispered at himself critically. The worst thing was, every fibre of his being agreed with him.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

An imposter becomes my husband.

_Hermione_

When I got home he was waiting for me. A bottle of whiskey was spinning in-between his fingers, making a hollow sound against the metal table. He was pissed – of course. His eyes were deep in their sockets, hair in tufts, and his watery eyes turned on me as I slinked through the door.

His expression was thunderous.

"Where the _fuck _have you been?"

I tried to stay calm. "I could ask you the same question. You didn't come home last night."

All at once his hand slammed against the table, and I winced. It was so out of his character – yet as he staggered towards me, he'd never looked more threatening.

He stopped himself, frustrated, like a caged animal, swigging more whiskey then slamming it on a free cabinet, wiping his mouth with his ragged sleeve. He started pacing. He reeked of beer... and, of...

"Have you been smoking?" I asked Ron, agog. He'd always hated cigarettes, both because we'd never been able to afford them, and because... I disliked them.

He stopped, staring at me with that same hatred. "Yes, fags. I went and found –"

"What?" The words exploded out of me, like knives. The anger poured from me in natural response to his. I shook under the weight of it, the pure rage of him. "Someone to fuck _you?" _I asked him, my fists clenched. He sighed, and the pain was evident in his face. I could see I was hurting him, but I was too angry to care. He had abandoned me for days, and here he was, assuming the worst, asking where _I'd been? _

"This... this isn't about me," he said, but he was quiet. Weaker, after I reminded him of this huge hollowness which was causing the rift between us. I could feel it – it was like a rift in the earth, in our very foundations.

"Actually, it is about you." I whispered. "It's about both of –"

"Fucking shut up!" screamed Ron. He threw himself towards me, and then stopped himself. It would have been comical to watch if it wasn't so threatening. His huge, clumsy limbs almost over balanced and toppled before his hands could raise to hit me.

He closed his eyes, and I stood there. I was trembling, and my eyes were huge and oval, and non-believing. What was this? How could he possibly be doing this to me? To his Hermione? After everything we'd gone through, everything we wanted? After the man I'd looked after, who I'd laughed with, who I'd held late at night and had assured him that it didn't matter. That nothing mattered, only he and I.

He stared at his hands, in seeming amazement, and still drunk, staggered backwards into the welcoming sofa. He ran his hands through his hair, and I could hear that familiar sound of his sigh as he tried to hold his tears inside.

"Who the _fuck _are you?" I whispered. I was confused, desperate. I walked towards him, and he averted my gaze as my hands gently found his face. The anger was fizzling into emotion, into mourning. I could feel the glassy tears spilling, and I tried to pull him closer. "You've never been like this. You're not being the man I fell in love with..."

He turned to me then, all at once; You would have thought my hands were snakes. I was medusa, for five seconds, for he had turned to stone. Then he pushed me – pushed me backwards with startling firmness – it was savage. I was pushed backwards into an old coffee table, and I let out a gasp of pain, feeling it dig into my skin. His hands were what had hurt though – he had actually bruised my wrists; he had. _He had harmed me. _

I stared up at him, stunned, as he recoiled, standing over me. He ran his hands over the places where my hands had been, and stared at me like I was a disease.

Maybe I was.

"You were with him, weren't you?" he snapped. His face was full of malice, of betrayal, of disgust. It was as though he was brushing insects of himself, not my feather light, gentle touch.

"No." I whispered. I felt the sob tear out of my throat. "No, I wasn't-"

"You were! Hermione, I got his phonecall! I heard it!" Ron bellowed. He slammed a finger into the voice mail machine on the other side of the room, and...

I could have died. My face flooded red as I shoved my hands against my head. A sob escaped as his beautiful voice filled the room, filled with the artificial richness of a million wasted martini's.

"_Hello Hermione, well done for getting the caviar on Mr Machi. Daresay he rather enjoyed the performance... I don't even mind paying the dry cleaning bill..." _there was a pause, a cough, and then a hurried, "_Look, Hermione, have you thought anymore about my offer? I know –"_

But I didn't hear the rest of the message. Ron's fist enclosed around the phone and it clattered to the floor; and then he glared at me, as I stood there, our entire life together in tatters between us.

Tatters which I knew would never be sown back together.

"It's not what it –" I began, but he paused me.

"Save me the bullshit, Hermione." His broken voice made me feel worse. He ran a hand through his hair, and tried to look away.

"I mean it!" I cried, "I mean it! I could never disobey you! Leave you! Never! What he's talking about with the 'offer'..."

"You went then?" he challenged, his voice breaking, fist slamming into the wall next to him.

"I..." I tried to explain, and then I realised it was probably better to tell him the truth then for him to think I could have possibly have disobeyed him. I tried to make words, helplessly, "I.."

"Exactly," Ron whispered, not quite triumphant. He groaned and sank into the sofa, burying his head in his hands. "Exactly."

"No! You don't understand! Ron, he bought our land, I went to him to get it back!"

He looked up, and shook his head. His expression was venomous, "Oh yeah? And what did you offer him in return, Hermione? Did you fuck him?"

He stormed over to me, and his breath reeked of beer. It turned my stomach – he turned my stomach. To know that, that mouth had kissed another, had been with another.

To know how he felt every time I touched him, looked at him, kissed him...

He staggered slightly, but stayed upright still, leering. "Did you fuck him, Hermione? Eh!" he staggered forwards, after my shoulder, but drunk and tipsy, he missed. "Did you fuck him, Hermione? Was he better than me?"

"Stop it!" I screamed, backing away. I was aiming for the bedroom, hoping to lock myself inside, but he got there before me. He was actually chasing me across our house, and I'd never felt more frightened of my home, of him, in my life. He was suddenly so much taller, so much wider, so much more dangerous.

"No!" he bellowed, "FUCKING ANSWER ME!"

He tried to grab at me, and he mostly succeeded. Until my natural instincts took over – the fight or flight mechanism was hard to overcome, and my hand snapped into his face. He staggered backwards, stunned, and grabbed at his bloody nose.

I was stunned too. Stunned at myself, stunned at us.

Just...

Stunned.

"Yes, Ron, I did fuck him." I whispered. The sob tore out of my mouth, and I ran my hands through my hair, shaking. "Yes, I fucked him! Not today, but I did before! You want to know if he's better than you? Well I can't win! I can tell you he was awful, and you know I'd be lying. I could tell you he was a fucking stallion, I could tell you that he went all fucking night – and would that make it easier for you, Ron?" I was screaming, throwing my voice towards him. "DOES THAT MAKE IT EASIER FOR YOU?"

I finally stopped, still shaking, as the words tore from my mouth. I was out of breath, I was full of fear still, and my heart was heavy with emotion. The tears were pouring from my eyes, tears that I'd only dared cry, lonely, in bed at night; tears I'd held back from him for words.

He stood, like a lost little boy; not understanding what just happened here anymore than I.

"Hermione," he began – his voice was a broken sob.

But I would not go to his rescue. I would not enclose my arms around him, and fuck him because I needed it. I had never been more terrified of him in my life. I had loved him forever, and yet, right now, I was terrified.

I was shaking, but standing, strong, in front of him. Ready to accept whatever punishment he seemed to feel fit. His cruel hands had jabbed, pushed, poked. His cruel words had torn and ripped.

Now I was in tatters.

"Hermione...?"

"Get..." I tried to form words, moving my arm from his grasp. "Get... out."

He stood, and then, still drunk, and staggering, he walked past me, towards the doorway.

When the door closed behind him, I felt my entire body break with the strength it took to hold myself upright. I paused, stood over the table, before the howl of pain left my lips, before I shook with anger more vehement than any I'd ever known. Before My hand enclosed around his whiskey bottle, and it plummeted against a wall, shatters of glass flying everywhere like my heart, raising cuts and gashes in my arms.

I sank into the carpet and I cried. I didn't move, I didn't stop crying, for two days. I stayed there, howling into the carpet, staring openly into space. I slept there, I stared into space, not processing what had happened to me.

I was alone; without him, I didn't have an identity. Who did I look after, who did I hold at night? Who did I build my dreams with?

Now I had no dreams, no life, no one to share them with.

I had no him.

When Ginny arrived, she let herself into the flat. I didn't know she had a key, but when she saw me, I heard her shout. I think at first she thought I was unconscious, but that wasn't true. I was in a coma, of sorts, completely cut off from everything.

I could feel her, helping me limp towards bed, whispering that everything was going to be okay. I didn't know anything anymore, only that her arms enclosed around me and I was sobbing into her shoulder. How silly; I'd been crying for two days solid.

"Ron moved back home," Ginny told me, just before I fell into sleep. "He told me everything."

Blackness. Darkness; sweet oblivion.

* * *

When I woke up, I felt awful. Like I'd been hit around the head with a baseball bat and then fed to the lions. I almost jumped when I realised Ginny was curled up next to me in bed. She woke up at my start, and rubbed her eyes sleepily.

"Hey,"

"Hey." My throat was raw. I was surprised, instinctively grabbing my throat, checking it still existed.

Ginny watched, sitting up and smiling sadly: "All the crying you've been doing."

"Oh..." I whispered, and then I was anxious. "Was I crying in my sleep?"

"All night." Ginny said, "About my shit of a brother, mostly..." she paused, "Who's Malfoy?"

I paused too; just his name raised Goosebumps.

"What did I say?"

"You were trying to explain to my brother that Malfoy meant nothing."

I sought something to say, something that didn't make me sound awful to whom appeared to be my only friend right now.

Ginny then smiled, lightly; shaking her head. "Look, Hermione... whatever you've done with this guy... I wouldn't blame you. Ron's treated you abysmally... we all knew it. Or at least, I did. I've just always taken it for granted, you for granted. You've always taken care of him – but it's not fair. Not anymore..."

"Ginny, I..." I tried to form words, but they wouldn't come out unless I sobbed them. "Ginny – it – it wasn't my fault..."

I felt her arms go around me. "It's okay, Hermione."

"Aren't you meant to be at work?" I asked her.

She chuckled. "Aren't you?"

Fuck!

"Work!" I began, and I made to get out of bed, but Ginny stopped me. "I rang them this morning. I told them the situation and they said to take as long as you need. It's no problem, apparently."

I raised my eyebrows. I didn't even like anyone at work, let alone talk to anyone. "Really?"

"Yeah." Ginny said, laughingly. "They were a bit pissed at first, but, you know..."

"So what about you?" I asked her, anxiously, settling back into bed. "How did you even know where you come find me?"

"Oh," Ginny said, and she was reddening. "I needed to speak with you... this guy – he and I... ah... we had a falling out. I'd been trying to ring you, but the phone was broken. Then Ron came home and told us stuff... and then I got worried, so I came to find you. Course, Ron bollocked me, but let him. He was pissed and off his face. Mum and Dad weren't impressed, but he had his old room back."

I thought for a moment; I couldn't see Mr and Mrs Weasley being impressed with Ron's behaviour. After all, after the man Ron became last night emerged, he was practically the opposite of what he was raised to be. His Mother would have been scared to death, angry and then sympathised, and his Dad would have been furious and confused. I could see it all – because I'd always promised to look after him. He was a hopeless mess without me, and I was a hopeless mess without him.

"I'm sorry, Ginny." I whispered.

"It's okay," she said, smilingly. "Really. You're like, my best friend, Hermione. You'd do the same for me."

I was close to crying. That sentiment sent me over the edge. Once again, with an affable laugh, she slid her arms around me, and I cried into her shoulder. I cried with my best friend, as I told her as much as I could, leaving out Malfoy, and she told me as much as she could.

It was a cleansing, as much as it was a communion. We two women, hopelessly broken and unable to put ourselves together. It was that evening when we decided we would move in together, and when I supplied the money for a deposit on a new flat. I couldn't bear to live in this one a moment longer, a moment more. To look at the walls and remember him.

When I gave Ginny the money, I was surprised that she didn't asked where I had it from. I was unnerved, although I supposed it was her gift for tact that had stopped her. Within the week, we packed up my stuff and moved into a flat around the corner. Ginny moved out of home, convieniently not telling Ron where she was going; not that she really told me what she told her bother. We neither of us spoke of him... no, together, we got on in an compatible silence, in the only way two friends can.

It was only Mrs Figg I think I'd miss. So I'd made the promise to come to tea at her's once a week, since she was so lonely. I'd decided I'd try to become a better person, since, just lately, I hadn't felt too grand about myself.

I promised I'd change myself. If I didn't have an identity without Ron, I'd make a new one. I wasn't the girl I was when I'd slept with Malfoy, or the girl I was when I married Ron. I know it sounded cliché, but I'm a firm believer experience makes you stronger.

So, before we left for the new flat, I got rid of our number. I burned my bridges with Malfoy, and I hoped to God he would never see me again, and I him. If I did I would die of embarrassment. I knowing he was right. In knowing that he poisoned us...

Well, possibly in knowing there wasn't much to poison in the first place. Ron and mine's relationship was poisoned enough anyway. I suppose he just solidified that gap. In that month with Ginny, I'd learned not to hate him, but I suppose to accept him. To accept that mistake, to accept that for something that happened. Then to move on, since it was pointless to hold onto it.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The One Way Door

_**Hi!  
I thought I'd give the "I" perspective another try – but this time from each characters point of view. Tell me if you don't like it, but I kind of do. Cheers for the lovely reviews and support – once again, this chapter wouldn't have been wrote without you guys, so, as ever, I'm incredibly grateful!  
So, here we go...**_

_Ginny_

There was a strange sense of versatility in sharing an apartment with Hermione. Besides that month of practically staying in her flat while she got over my god-for-nothing shit of a brother, we'd bonded considerably well. We now lived only a few streets away, although Hermione said this new deal seemed to work well. It was different from the layout of her own apartment, and therefore didn't remind her of him too much, and the rooms were bigger, so she could pretty much do what she wanted.

I'd tried to offer her money, but she'd been turning it down ever since I first offered. She said she'd take care of it all; I didn't understand where she was getting the money from. I mean, I'd been living in a slum of an apartment on the other side of London – this huge flat with its open planned living space and its high ceilings. It was Victorian, slightly industrial in its design since it was a studio loft before; but now it had been converted into a quirky kitsch sort of space. Its bare, clean bricks passed for quirky interior design, allegedly; its one or two plastered walls covered in deep purples and greens were admittedly stunning but puzzling. Not that I was too fussed about the aesthetics. I was pleased to be out of my slum of an apartment. Before I'd been embarrassed to bring Blaise back home, so we'd shag in the locker rooms. Here, I'd gladly bring him back. He'd fit here; in a loft which was the "cutting edge of interior design".

One thing I really really liked about it, though, was the fact that it had under-floor heating. I woke up in the mornings, and I wasn't freezing cold. I didn't even have to put money in a meter – or pay towards gas bills and electricity bills. Hermione took care of it all.

It actually had been worrying me. I was thinking up loads of elaborate explanations. That either she was a prostitute, a drug dealer, or a female pimp. Of course, when I voiced these questions, she merely laughed them off, telling me not to worry. It was nice to see her laugh, it had been a long time.

So I didn't ask; instead I was grateful as she signed the dotted line to buy our flat outright. I didn't want to think how much it cost her – the rest she said was easy; we'd just have to pay the gas and water and electricity bills. I was learning slowly to be respectful of her privacy; I didn't ask her questions, and she didn't ask me questions. The mutual understanding worked well.

Our big kitchen was full of stainless steel, majestic looking equipment. A lot of which we hardly used; Our fridge was split fifty-fifty. Half of it was my protein shakes, which I guzzled down on the tube as I went out to work in the morning, and the other half were Hermione's fruit and veg. She said she found cooking therapeutic; in fact, I think she found most stuff therapeutic. She hadn't been back to work in two months, now. They were ringing her, demanding she come back, and Hermione would ignore the phone calls.

It began to frustrate me. When we were younger I always looked up to Hermione like a big sister. Since Ron brought her home for the first time, I'd always thought her the bees-knees. I'd developed an iconic version of her in my head of a woman who fought for what she believed in. But where was she now? She was gone. She had vanished along with my brother... maybe it was he who had taken her away.

I'd finally had enough one night. I got home, as she was cooking, washing salad. I don't know what it was that made me snap. Maybe it was just the fact that she was stood there doing such an everyday mandatory task. A task she could have done in her sleep; when she was worth so much more.

"You need to go back, Hermione." I said it, suddenly, brashly. Even courageously.

She dropped the sieve she was washing the salad in, and it thudded against the stainless steel sink. It was as though my words had weakened her; for she looked on the verge of collapsing. She grabbed the sink with her two hands for support, and turned, facing me.

"I can't, Ginny. I just can't face it."

I stared at her, and my face was incomprehensible for just a few seconds, until I felt the frustration begin to knit my brows together.

"Hermione, that's... bullshit!" I had tried to stay calm, but it was impossible. "Absolute bullshit!"

"Ginny, I've..." Hermione was faltering, and the fear in her eyes was frightening me.

"You've what, Hermione?" I snapped at her. "You've what? You've started to become a recluse! You're worth more than this, Hermione!"

"But going back to my dead end job isn't the way of doing anything!" She cried at me. Her face was torn and conflicted, and her eyes were full of tears. "Don't you see? If I go back there, I'll never escape!"

I understood then. I understood what she was afraid of. I walked forwards and slid my arms around her, pulling her into a hug. She was sobbing, sobbing because she thought she was trapped, because _she _didn't think her life was worth living.

She was wrong.

"You think you'll never escape..." it was a statement, not a question. I pulled away from her, and grabbed her hands, sitting her down at the table. I made tea for two, taking time the let the kettle boil and the tea backs brew so she had time to compose herself. She was much too proud to let me see her in such a state; hell, I idolised her too much to even want to see her like that. If I did the spell might be broken.

I sat down opposite her and took my hand in one of mine, and she laughed, wiping her tears away. "Oh, Gin, what would I do without you?"

"Probably end up dead in a gutter somewhere," I admitted, modestly. "Look, here's what I think. You need a life plan."

She laughed, sipping her tea. "There's the problem, Gin. I don't have one."

I hesitated, and then smiled. "Then let's make one."

* * *

_Blaise_

Malfoy was back in the office. He was in his most expensive suit; he looked crisper today, but older somehow. Like he'd suffered a few sleepless nights; I knew he had to go to Tokyo to seal a few deals, but I was mortified by his appearance today. Deep purple circles under his eyes, which were red and blurry. His shirt, although clean and pressed was slightly too angular. He'd obviously just brought it, just to come into the office with.

"Malfoy..."

I was pleading with him as he sat in his normal desk, opening his brief case and pulling out some paper work to peruse. He was knackered, you could tell.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, saying "How long?"

He looked up; bright blue eyes on mine. "What?"

"How long have you been awake?"

He hesitated, and then decided to answer honestly. "About 96 hours since I last had an hour..."

"You need to go to bed!" I insisted. I was angry at him – he was letting himself become some sort of reckloose, all for what? For some stupid girl he fancied himself in love with?

Malfoy had returned to his paper work, but it was as though he was listening to my internal monologue. "Yes, I did try and find her."

I gasped, slapping a hand to my head. "Malfoy-!"

"I know," he said, gravely. He was more frustrating than ever, and I was losing my temper. "I will when I know she's safe. I visited the apartment she and... well, she wasn't there. Her neighbour said she had moved over a month ago –" he paused, watching me staring out of our office window, into the busy London streets below. Even his silence commanded me, and as his most loyal friend, I turned to him.

"Malfoy, you're a billionaire. You make roughly Twenty thousand pounds every day. You go to expensive events where women fall all over you – why will only this woman...?"

He shook his head, "Because you know why. Because I haven't felt this way since –"

"Look, I know it's hard. I know it's been hard." I hesitated, my mouth was dry. How could I say this, nicely, without bringing up the memories of that night? "I know. It was hard for Luna and me, too-"

Malfoy shook his head, and smacked the table with his hand. "There! Right there, don't you get it! I dream of a love I'd die for." He looked animalistic, his eyes wide and temper flaring; for the first time since that night, he wasn't Malfoy; the smooth, simpering businessman. He was just... a man. And it terrified me. I stood there, head to the side, look of puzzlement. "You and Luna are lucky." Malfoy said, "I dream of a love I'd die for. A love that could bring me back... back to life? I dream of that. I've found it. I just need to tell her."

I sighed, shaking my head. If only he knew. If only he actually knew. Would I die for Luna? That was a difficult one. I didn't know who I'd die for. I didn't have a love I'd die for in fact. I was utterly selfish. I knew it too – my self-worth was at an all time low. The fact that Malfoy admired, was jealous, of my wife and family confirmed that saying you 'don't know what goes on behind closed doors'. It's true, you don't.

Equally, we each of us have our own door. The one that's reluctant to open, until we meet that person we open it to completely. The transition from boy to man begins; from selfish to selfless.

The trouble was, I'd never opened mine. I loved my children. I suppose that was my compromise; I wouldn't die for Luna, but I'd die for my children. From the moment I held them in my arms, till this very day. I'd die for my children.

But not for my wife.

I was sickening.

"I have to go." I said. It was the truth. I felt sick, all at once. Probably all the wine last night. I'd had too much, and again, I found myself at a lose end. Luna was working a late shift, and I was lonely.

So I picked up the phone.

When Malfoy nodded at me to leave, signing paperwork as though nothing had been said between us, I staggered through the open planned office – where our men and women were looking up various investments and a few admins printing off their paperwork. I staggered out of there as many greeted me enthusiastically and I weakly nodded in return. No one ever saw the man underneath the mask of that businessman I portrayed so well. No one ever saw.

I'd got to the bathroom and I was clutching at a sink for support, staring at myself in the mirror. I was amazed that no one had picked up on my threadbare appearance today – my deep blue circles under my eyes, my ruffled and slightly untidy hair, the coffee stains on my tie. But then, the most insignificant details are often the biggest clues, and the ones which are hardest to pick up.

I washed my face, as if hoping I could wash away myself. As if hoping I could escape from this reality and be sucked, gurgling, down the drain. No such luck – I just stared at my reflection. My pale, wobbling reflection. What was I doing? I was destroying everything, all for one girl...

I maybe loved her more than I admitted. But why did I love her, exactly? Was it because she made me feel young, or because she worshipped me? Was it because she thought the world of me? Was it because I wanted her too?

Maybe I did want her. Maybe when I went to sleep I imagined her lying next to me, instead of Luna who lightly snored, snapping me out of my reverie. Maybe when I had decided that was it, that I'd never see her again, I'd know in my heart that wasn't true.

Maybe I didn't deserve either of the women in my life, but maybe I loved both of them in different ways. I loved Luna because she was the Mother of my children... I loved Ginny because... because...

Because she made me feel special. Loved, adored. Wanted. She made me feel attractive again, after years of desolate parenthood.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had found my phone in my pocket and was thumping the words into it, clicking send before I could take it back.

_Your place tonight? _

The reply was so instantaneous I'd wondered if she was sat by her phone, waiting for me to text her.

_Yes. But you might meet my flatmate. xx_

I frowned. I didn't like the sound of this. One minute I'd be meeting her flatmate, the next I'd be moving in. I didn't know what this was, but I wasn't sure if I wanted this confusing things.

_Can't you make her go out?_

The reply was instant again.

_It's her flat. Relax, it's not like she doesn't know about you. I think she's out tonight anyway... so we'll have the place to ourselves. That is, if you still want to come? Xx_

I stared at her text for a full five minutes, before my heart overrode my brain. Before I couldn't help but tell her, _I'll bring wine._

* * *

I'd told Luna I had a meeting, that I was closing a deal in Spain, and I'd be back tomorrow night. Her good natured, beautiful response left me heartbroken; but I was too selfish to care. Right now, I needed Ginny. Yes, it was selfish. No I didn't feel good doing it. I knew I was unfaithful, I knew it.

I hated it.

"Well... what time will you be back tomorrow night?" Luna asked me. Her beautiful voice was haunting me. I was on the tube, going towards Ginny's. It made me squeamish. The bloke next to me was doing that thing, where he was pretending he wasn't listening but he actually was. In fact, I was certain the entire carriage was listening.

I hesitated; my mouth was dry again. "Probably normal time. About five."

She breathed in deeply, and whispered, "Well you could bring some wine... I thought maybe we should... connect, for a while." The words were tentatively put out there, chosen before she said them. She had never been very good at saying stuff like this – at seducing anyone. I was always the seducer, in our early relationship. The way she was trying to fulfil my interest melted my heart; how could I say no?

"Of course." I said, and she exhaled in relief.

"Good... I went shopping today, after work. I erm..." her voice dropped. "I found this shop. It's fairly experimental, but I thought it would maybe spice things..."

I winced – I both knew the people on the tube were listening in, and that the thought of me and my wife experimenting did not fill me with joy. The opposite in fact; in a hushed whisper, I said, "Can we talk about this then?"

I could visualise that blush crawling up her cheeks, the hurt in her eyes, before I heard it in her voice as she said, "Oh... okay."

I didn't feel good about it, and trust me; the looks of disgust I got from various other women on the tube were well deserved. The looks of idiocy from the blokes were comically infuriating; so infuriating, that they were practically suffocating.

"Got to go. Bye, love you." I clicked off my phone, before she even had a chance to say it back, and got straight off the tube. As the door slid shut, and I emerged in an empty station. I sighed, relieved and determined to leave the married man behind me. He was the one getting judged, he was the one suffering with what others thought. He was the one who had turned down his poor wife.

I straightened my suit, and pulled my wedding ring from my finger, slipping it into my pocket, and, briskly, began to walk. I'd gotten off a stop early, and so, I was now walking for a while.

Out on the busy London streets, the briskness of a Friday Night was everywhere. Men coming home from days at work, and women greeting them. There was a chill in the air, as the end of October approached, and men and women were wearing their scarves and gloves. Halloween decorations were everywhere; pumpkins that were the same colour as Ginny's hair, and white sheets for ghosts, the same colour as her skin.

When I got to her door, finally finding the new place, I wasn't sure what I was anticipating. Something small, and quaint. But I was wrong.

When she opened the door to me, I could see her face light up into a huge grin, as big and wide as the apartment behind her.

"Hey," she said. She'd dressed up for me – well, I suppose she'd dressed down. She was there, her athletic body, toned by hours of football, stood before me in her beautiful lingerie.

I didn't know what I was doing until I did it. My lips slammed down on hers, and forced them open. My tongue darted forcefully into her mouth as I slapped the door closed behind me. It was pretty much on from then – we left a trail of clothes behind us, until she guided me to her bedroom.

When I lowered her onto the double bed, I felt her legs part in welcome. She was lying there, underneath me. Gorgeous, young, and willing. Attractive, and naked.

And the only thing I could think about was my children. My beautiful, beautiful children. How I could measure their similarities and differences and tell you the exact sounds of their voices, and their laughter. The exact differences between them. When I first held them.

And I couldn't do this.

I sprang away from her and sat up, staring evenly at the wall, head in my hands, panting. What was I doing? This wasn't who I was. I was a Father, a husband. Admittedly, a crap one. But I was. I was here to fuck a girl who I didn't really love. Who I loved for her youth, her beauty. Who I loved because she idolized me.

And I was cruel enough to not care.

"I can't do this..." I muttered.

I knew Ginny was dejected. I knew she was probably embarrassed, thinking it was something _she'd _done.

I turned to her, with the intention of soothing this over, but she was across the other side of the room, retrieving her dressing gown and throwing it across her shoulders.

"Ginny, I'm –" I started, but she turned.

God, she was beautiful. And surprising. No tears, no upset. A mask of calm. She walked towards me, and dropped to her knees, and her eyes found mine. Her hands pulled mine away from my face, and held them in hers.

"Go home, Blaise." She said, clearly. "Go home, to your wife, and your kids. And please, never come back. Never speak to me again, and never try and contact me. Just go."

And then she stood up, brushing me away.

"Ginny-"

"Go." She ordered me. There was an audible break in her voice, "Just fucking leave."

I stood up and stared – she was facing the wall, waiting for the audible door slam, the shuffle of my feet. I couldn't undertand why she let me go then, and I probably never would.

But I went. I turned, and like a coward, I left. I left that apartment, slamming the door behind me. I turned, and I had bumped into someone.

"Sorry – I –"

"No, really. Its fine, it was-"

Then we saw one another. Hermione Granger and I, stood face to face. I knew her at once, her long brownish-hair; even though she was much thinner. I only looked into her eyes for seconds before I instinctively turned and ran.

And those seconds were enough for me to see the recognition in her eyes.

Hermione Granger knew who I was. And now, I knew where she was.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The man beneath the suit

Blaise

When I got home, I was still panicking. My breath came out in a strange, ragged rhythm. As I turned the key in the door, I shut it fast behind me. I was trying to block out the world, block out what I'd done.

I tip toed up the stairs and found myself looking in on Karen and Imogen's bedroom, where they were sleeping; two beautiful, peaceful angels. I had no idea why, but all the way home I'd thought something had happened to them. It had been enough to raise sweat on my arms, to hurry me back. Yet, now, all was calm.

"They love you, you know." Luna's Irish lilt was very unsurprising. I had heard her shuffling across the landing, before I connected the fact that she was next to me; watching my reaction. As I turned to her, I realised that her eyes were full of tears, which were rolling onto her dressing gown. Her arms were folded around herself, in that way they did when she was upset.

"Luna...?" I began, and my hand found her face, wiping away a tear. The sight of my poor wife upset was shocking to me. To me, she was as immortal as Malfoy was.

She stared back at me, evenly, but there was a hurt in her eyes. I was astounded, then, when she said, "Just... please, Blaise." Her eyes were round as pennies. "Please don't leave us."

I stared at her, as she began to sob. She plainly didn't _know _about Ginny – if she did, I'd be on the street already. She was sobbing and I pulled her – instinctively closer – in intimate comfort. She cried into my shirt, as I muttered, "Don't be silly, shh..."

"You're right," she said, weakly, smiling up at me. She was still crying though, "You're absolutely right. I know you'd never leave us, it's just... I've had such a crap day and you weren't here and I just needed you..."

She cried again into my shirt, and this time I swept her up in my arms. I'd never felt so awful, so despicable, so completely ugly. I'd left my wife when she needed me – when I married her, she was my responsibility, mine. I vowed to look after her, in sickness and in health. What had I done?

I found her face with my hand, and I realised then that I was crying too. "Have you still got the wine in the fridge?"

She nodded, still crying. "Then we'll go downstairs. You can tell me about your day."

The smile, the relief and the love that adorned her face, relieved me of any doubt. This was the right thing, and Ginny had set me free from her. I'd never be able to repay what she'd done for me and my family tonight.

* * *

Hermione

At first I'd been ignoring seeing Blaise in the hallway. I'd put it down to coincidence. He didn't know me, or I, him. It was stupid to think that he was here on purpose, after all, they'd have found me already...

Or would they?

The panic consumed me for that week. I'd been trawling job seekers websites for some of my time, and stressing about Blaise for the rest. Our laptop was open on the kitchen table as I typed letters to Universities, asking for places on their courses. Some replied, others didn't.

Ginny was as supportive as ever, but for some reason, she was down. I couldn't put my finger on what – that was, until she told me.

We were having breakfast, the two of us, and she spontaneously told me that she'd let him go. Just like that.

"I was looking at him, and I wasn't seeing _him. _I was seeing his wife, his kids." She shook her head, her face was mournful. "I couldn't stand it. I hated it, but I'd just... I'd had enough."

"You let him go?" I asked her.

She nodded.

I supposed I knew what she was going through. In a sense, I'd let Ron go too. It was because, in both of our cases, we loved them. We loved them too much to let them suffer; to let them remember.

So Ginny and me were back to just being us; at night she helped me write to Universities, applying for jobs; in the daytime, I cooked, I cleaned, I visited Mrs Figg. The amount of stale cake I'd eaten and cats I'd stroked was unfortunate, since I stank of her apartment but I did it all – because I wanted to change. Because I was sick of being this Hermione who felt sorry for herself. Because it was time to grow, and I never would unless _I _was the one making the change.

The new fire inside me made me do something I never thought I would... I picked up the phone and dialled Ron Weasley's number. Not because I wanted him back, but because it was time to settle this score.

As his low, murmur answered I was taken aback at first. It had been months since I heard his voice, months since he'd spoken to me. All of a sudden, hearing it was astounding.

"Ron?"

Of course, I didn't need to question whether it was him or not, but it did give him some reaction time. Some time to decide whether to hang up or not. Evidently, he decided against it, as he said, flatly – even curtly, "Hermione,"

I cleared my throat carefully; I was nervous for some reason; I'd been anticipating this for a while. So the words started to flood out without any knowledge I was saying them; "Ron – I was... I mean, I'm not calling because –"

"Hermione, if you're calling to apologise-"

"I'm not." I snapped, and he quietened. I could hear the increase in his breathing, indicating he was angry. I bit my lip; but I stood by it. I wasn't sorry – I'd apologised enough. It was his turn to apologise now.

"Then why are you calling?" He asked, harshly.

"I wanted to speak to you," I said, carefully. "Look, Ron, do you want half the million? It's sitting in my bank account now, ready to be put across. I just need your bank details."

He breathed out – you could hear the amazement in his voice, the wonder. All the while, all I remembered was Malfoy's voice, the sultry lilt of it, saying 'radix malorum est cupiditas; the love of money is the root of all evil'. Even now, even after all we'd been through, he still hadn't learned his lesson. I wasn't surprised when he said, "That's only half of what you owe."

I raised my eyebrows, "What, you want the million?"

He snorted, "No. Hermione, I don't want the million. I want a divorce."

I blinked, then I found myself shrugging. My reply was so calm, you'd have thought I'd have rehearsed that too. "Okay. I'll get a solicitor; the papers will be in your house by Monday."

"Good." He replied, although you could hear the wobble in his voice. Then his voice dropped into a malicious, snake-like hit, "I'll take you for every penny you own, Hermione. I hope you know that."

Before he clicked off the phone.

I stared into space, every hair on my body stood on end, anticipating Ron bleeding my money dry. Doing me out of house, of home, of stature – and all my dreams; the job forms, my Uni place... it all dissolving into dust.

* * *

_Malfoy_

When I arrived to see Mrs Figg, I was surprised to find her expecting me. I'd grown attached to her in the short space of time I'd known her. Her cats, however, took some getting used to. I'd brought her flowers; the sticky pollen was brushing against my suit. She was waiting for me, and as it always did, her face lit up.

"Mr Malfoy! Goodness me, it's good to see you! I've just made a fresh batch of rock cakes for you!" she chortled, leaving the door open for me to follow her. I closed it behind me, enthusiastic for her. She was sweet, even if she couldn't cook at all. I'd grown up respecting the elderly – and she was an escape from the life of a billionaire even if it was only for a few hours. I'd first met her when I came to find Hermione at the apartment across the way, and I'd been reluctant to leave her since she looked so fragile alone.

"Sit yourself down, silly man!" she chided, gesturing towards the kitchen table. I smiled and sat down.

"How have you been, Mrs Figg?"

"Oh please, Draco, call me Arabella." She said; one of her many cats was mewling around her ankles as she pulled the rock cakes from the little oven. She batted it away, and, thankfully, it went off into the depths of the untidy apartment.

It was very untidy – well, I suppose to me it was. I was used to the authenticity of Japanese designs and rooms that looked like the inside of an ikea catalogue; not rooms that breathed life. That looked lived in. The sofa had on those plastic covers you saw in old sitcoms; her TV was an old Sixties thing that was fuzzing and fizzing pictures of what I supposed what the news; her flat was lined with shelves full of pictures of her many cats and a few little figurines of random things. I knew the figurines; they were Royal Doulton and Churchill – worth a fortune. I knew because my wife collected them – the remnants of this were boxed up back home. Looking at them had been too painful.

"So how have you been?" I asked her.

"Very well, love! It's nice to have company. Between you – oh, that reminds me! I hope you don't mind, I think Hermione might be coming-"

I stood up, stunned. Hermione, coming here? Now?

"Hermione's coming?"

"Yes, she visits a lot. But today-"

Abruptly, there was a knock at the door as Mrs Figg beamed, walking towards the door to open it. I felt like an ant, writhing under the persistent light of the sun. I wanted to run, but I wanted to see her. I wasn't prepared I wasn't –

When she opened the door, Hermione was stood there – as beautiful as ever; when she saw me, the flowers she'd been carrying dropped from her hand.

* * *

_Hermione_

I stared at him. I could see him past Mrs Figg, stood up at the kitchen table. He was staring back at me, his eyes as round as mine; the same, mirrored reaction as my own.

It told me that neither of us had expected to find one another here. It told me he was looking for me, but that he was friends with Mrs Figg; but why was he? Because he expected to find me here, or because he genuinely worried about her? I knew which I was betting on.

"Oh, hello, Hermione. Where are my manners!" she chided herself, pulling me in by her hands and inviting me into the living room; the flowers were forgotten at the door.

I stared at him, still to shocked too move; I'd thought about him, all these months. I'd even vaguely wondered if he'd thought of me, even if, for obvious reasons, what we had would and could never go anywhere. His face was full of shock, and then, gradually, it was soothed over into that businessman's smirk he was so accustomed to advertising; Mrs Figg hadn't noticed our exchange at all. It possibly had something to do with her short-sightedness and something to do with her desperation for company which made her incredibly out of touch with social dilemmas. In any sense, she gabbled about how much she enjoyed each of our company, how much she'd wanted us to meet.

I couldn't ruin this moment for her, since obviously, she'd been building it up in her mind for days. So when she introduced us, I smoothed my own features into a welcoming smile (or tried) and offered him my hand.

I was surprised when he raised it to his lips to kiss; it burned my skin, like frost.

"Ooh! Isn't he the perfect gentleman!" squealed Mrs Figg.

I nodded weakly.

She went to the oven, pulling out the remainder of rock cakes, as I turned to him. My glare at him said a thousand words. It made my blood pound, and boil even though it felt as cold as ice; even though every hair on me was stood on end. What was he doing here? How did he find me?

His answering look was as composed as always. I sat down at the table, and so did he, like the perfect gentleman. He looked over at Mrs Figg, busy with her cakes and, of course, short of hearing, as he leaned forwards and said, "I've been looking for you. Worried about you,"

"I've been fine. I don't appreciate your concern." I snapped at once. It was quite loud too – not that Mrs Figg was listening. She was humming a soundless tune and telling us how pleased she was that we'd met at regular intervals.

"I was worried," he repeated, and his hand found mine.

It took me some time to react before I pulled away. It was like putting my hand under a very hot or very cold tap – it was fine for a minute, before I remembered how I should be. I stared at him, and shook my head.

Just then Mrs Figg brought back her rock cakes and placed them in the middle of the table.

The conversation that went between us was very very easy. He was a fantastic actor, and he answered and charmed in beautiful measures – I agreed and disagreed when needed, but I mostly – and indulgently – watched him. His skills with words were the same as his skills with cards. He was effortless; he even nibbled on a rock cake and sipped his stone cold tea. A billionaire sat in this tiny kitchen with this little old woman; he was so out of place, it was astounding.

When the tea had been forced down, the rock cakes drunk, I'd decided it was time to leave; before he could –

"I'll come with you," Malfoy said, at once.

I stared at him, and his grin back was not to be influenced by me.

"I really-"

"Don't be silly, love," said Mrs Figg, with a little cackle. "A young woman shouldn't go through the streets alone at this time of night."

"She's right," Malfoy said.

I glared at him through my smile. If I didn't say yes, she'd only encourage us to go anyway. So eventually, I found myself nodding.

"So it's settled!"

We helped her to wash up, offered if there was anything else she needed, then, even though I'd been stalling as much as humanly possible, we had to leave. I pecked her on the cheek, and Malfoy followed, and then left her and the cats in peace.

We didn't speak until we'd emerged out on the street together. The cold night air left me breathless as soon as we were out of the Victorian Terrace, so I couldn't get through my first sentence without my teeth chattering.

"What- what are you doing-?"

"You don't have a coat!" he cut me off, in shock. He took his own, grey woolly overcoat off and threw it around me. It was too heavy and thick and lovely to resist. Damn my clothes! I'd put on my usual joggers, ugg boots and cardigan – not clothes for the approaching London Winter.

When he threw his coat around me, I stared up at him; he was still the same. Those blue eyes, wide like pools; except under them were deep purple circles. He was slightly rugged, somehow, despite the crisp white, freshly bought suit.

He paused, taking his time. It was as though he was savouring the intimacy between us – his warm breath brushed against my face. I wish it was because I was so cold that I didn't push him away.

He found my eyes, and he smiled. It was smile which was truthful, but somewhat artificial in appearance. It had something deeper underneath it; it was like he was covering up some desperately strong emotion. I think for the first time, I saw a different Malfoy than the one which was on the boat, the one which had bought me. I saw the man beneath the suit. "There, you're warmer."

He was holding onto the edges of the coat, and, reluctantly, he seemed to let go.

The warmth spread through me, and I burrowed inside it. He was walking steadily next to me – aimlessly, even, since he didn't know where he was going.

"Hope you don't think you're walking me home." I said, insistently.

His answering look annoyed me. He wasn't even offended, he was actually laughing. "Oh really? And you'd rather walk the streets of London in minus temperatures, alone, at ten O'clock at night? If you tell me where you live, I'll get my driver –"

"That won't be necessary, since you're not walking me to my door. And you're not going to hear where I live."

He sighed, as though preparing for this. Then he shrugged. "Okay. But either way, you're stuck with me..."

I sighed, pausing and turning towards him, arms folded under his coat. He grinned back, and there was that characteristic twinkle in his eye, which made the abuse I'd been planning to say to him disappear. It frustrated me – to the extent where my mouth was hanging open, with no words to say.

He was right of course. Logically, I was safer with him rather than walking the streets alone at night. Even if I did it everytime I visited Mrs Figg, and I knew the streets backwards. It was never a pleasant experience to walk them alone, so I supposed what he was doing was charity.

"I don't want the pity, though." I said, easily.

He blinked, confused, and then he started to laugh again. "Pity? You think I'd still be here if I was doing this out of pity?"

"Well I might as well be Mrs Figg. Don't tell me that's not pity? Or is it because you hoped I'd walk through the doors one day?"

He sighed, considering my suggestions before saying, "A bit of both. Look, Hermione – lets..." he trailed off, and then said, "I'll walk you home... well," he said, to my look of protest, "To the corner of where you live. And I'll answer any questions or queries you have. Deal?"

I was too eager , too scared and too cold to refuse.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Hello everyone! Chapter 10 has arrived! I'm off on holiday for two weeks now, though, so I'll try and have the next chapters ready to publish the moment I get back; I'll probably be distracted this week too, since the results from my exams get back (so wish me luck!) Either way, this is goodbye for two weeks (I'm really sorry) but I haven't left you on too much of a cliff hanger, as I thought that would be cruel!**_

_**As always, thank you for the support and kind words; none of this would be possible without you!**_

_**So, without further a due...**_

Chapter 10

_Hermione_

He was walking next to me, and it felt like I was walking by some open flames. It was scorching, to the extent where I practically didn't need the coat anymore.

We had ambled along happily for the past five minutes, and I couldn't take my eyes away from him. I supposed I was in some sort of disbelief. It had been months, but he still had the same effect on me. Like I was flying, and falling all at once.

He looked over at me after staring everywhere but. His answering smile was breath-taking, before I pretended I didn't care, looking sharply away. The blush flooded my cheeks, and I bit down on my lip.

"Stop pretending." He said, laughingly. His suit was failing a little to keep him warm, and there was a little shiver in his voice? Or was it from more than the cold?

"I'm not."

"You are." He said, "But we'll change the subject before we start arguing."

Every sentence he uttered raised questions within me. _Why? Did he care if we argued? Why was he here, why did he care? _

"Why did you send Blaise to my apartment?"

The words snapped out of me before I could reel them back in. He stopped, dead in the middle of the road and turned to me. The shock on his face was not the work of a good actor like himself; it was real. It told me, maybe I said something I shouldn't have. "What?"

"He was in my flat," I said, still distrustful, but my voice was unwillingly softer. "I bumped into him. Only for a second –"

"If he was there, it wasn't through any order of mine." Malfoy said, shortly.

Why did I feel so disappointed about that? I was deflated. _It was through no order of mine. _Did I want it to be through his order?

No. That was absurd. We started to amble again, slowly walking through Mrs Figg's road.

"So you thought I'd been stalking you?" He asked, eyes wide with alarm.

"No!" I said, quickly. Then I realised I sounded defensive – it made it sound like I cared if he stalked me, that I'd even considered that. He raised his eyebrows and I blushed unwillingly again. "I mean... maybe. It frightened me."

"I don't mean to." He promised; the truthfulness of that statement frightened me again. He thought for a moment, and then said, "I never wanted to. Even on that night... I'd tried so hard to –"

"No, on that night you didn't... I mean..." I trailed off, and our eyes had met. It was like lightning, looking into his eyes. It left me dizzy, and amazed, and staggering. "It was great."

"It was." He agreed, and he uneasily added, "I mean... not that I always think about it – well, I do, but..."

I didn't believe it. He was actually nervous. Nervous, with me? I'd been with him, made love with him, kissed him, and slept in that bed; curled up in the quilt as together we watched the sun come up. Of course I'd thought about it – those hours where I was among the stars and not Hermione Granger. Where our bodies had sung to one another, and for a moment, imperceptibly, our hearts had beaten as one. Of course I'd thought about it – how could I not have?

And how could I blame him for thinking of it?

We both nervously broke out into laughter, and it left us both smiling at each other. What fools we were.

"I did try and find you," he said, "I'd... I'd been worried. That night – you left..."

"I didn't plan on leaving so abruptly," I said, truthfully. "I didn't like what I'd done."

"It wasn't what you did, it was what I did..." he murmured. His eyes were hurt – I realised that I'd put my finger on why he spent so many sleepless nights. Because he worried about me, and because he hated what he'd done.

"You did more good than harm," I answered his unspoken thoughts, and he turned to me, surprised. "You did," I said, carefully. I shook my head, adding, "I won't pretend it hurt at the time... but I don't want Ron."

"Then who do you want?" He asked, almost immediately.

I sighed, and averted his gaze. What kind of question was that? How many women had tried to answer that question?

"How about 'what do I want'?" I asked him.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Not even close..." I replied, rather callously, and not sparing his feelings. Not that he was off-putted – Christ, did Draco Malfoy even harbour embarrassment?

He merely laughed again, running a hand through his hair. "There you go again."

"Well how do you expect me to react, Malfoy?" I enquired of him.

"Well, I was hoping you wouldn't hate me."

"I don't." I said, truthfully. He looked up, surprised. "I mean," I added, hastily, "I did in the beginning. But now... I don't."

It was quiet for a moment, between us; the frost overhead was biting into my cheeks. I felt my eyes water in the cold of the London streets; it was getting so cold... I shivered into his coat.

"Then how do you feel?"

I looked up, surprised, even in wonderment.

I considered, for a moment, before saying the words which I'd been chewing over in my mouth for sometime; it wasn't until then that I even realised I felt it, but I did. "Better."

He smiled, gently; one side of his mouth turned up. "What's it in contrast to?"

"Soul-Destroying depression. But that's a different story... you know, my life's on track. I have a _purpose. _No job yet, but a purpose."

"You stopped working for the estate agency?"

I blinked, and he paused. He looked like he was mentally kicking himself for saying it, because we both knew I'd never mentioned that to him, and that he'd read up on me. I dismissed it; I was hardly surprised, in fairness. I'd seen what a man of his wealth, power and position could accomplish.

"Yes," He looked relieved at my easy answer. "I'm applying to Uni's, but they don't want to know."

He thought for a moment, "Have you mentioned my name?"

I blinked at him, dumbfounded as he casually kept walking, just as before. He was shivering now, and overhead, I knew the snow was coming.

"Why would I?"

"Because..." he paused, trying to find a fathomable reason. I had no idea that by mentioning his name, I'd get into Uni. I'd merely thought it was based on academic achievements alone; not that, that meant that it was right.

I raised my eyebrows, speculatively, as though saying, "Well?"

"Because I owe you a favour." He finished.

"You owe me nothing, and I owe you nothing." I replied, "We might as well be strangers-"

"In fairness, sleeping with someone tends to forge a bond not much can break." He said, and his eyes stared into mine. The snow had begun to fall, and it fell onto his grey suit, mingling with the thick, slick material. "I care for you, Hermione, even if you don't for me."

I almost wanted to tell him that was a lie. He was right, of course. I did care for him. But it was in a way which was foreign to me, and certainly not in a way which revealed an undying love. Yes, I cared for him – because we had a bond unlike any other. But it was confusing and messy, and not as black and white as the relationship Ron and I shared, or the relationship Ginny and I shared; it was neither. It was in a sort of grey area.

"I wouldn't anyway. I believe in equality."

"It is equality. It's just getting a leg up."

"Then it's not equality, is it?"

"It is." He shook his head, "First rule of business; it's not what you know, it's who you know."

"But I don't want to know you." I replied, again, not bothering to spare his feelings.

He shrugged, and the white snowflakes mingled in his hair. "You do. I mean, we happened. Whether you like it or not... besides which, I'm sure I'm having a dinner with a Professor of Literature at Cambridge on Saturday..." he thought for a moment, staring into space; his stencilled, perfect features slid into that look of concentration. "You should come."

"And be bought again?" I quipped.

He shook his head, now looking amused. "Not when I've invited you."

"I wouldn't want to go to Cambridge. I'm not clever enough."

"That's bollocks." He said, laughingly. "A-grades across the board? Course you're clever enough. And you know me; you're in already."

"You did your research with me, didn't you?"

"You make it sound like I'd done it before."

"Maybe you had." I said, ominously.

He chuckled, "I told you, I didn't have to buy women. I bought you because you said you couldn't be bought."

"I wasn't for sale."

"Until I asked for you. I highlighted the weakness in you and your husband-"

"_Ex_-husband." I said back, quietly.

His eyes met mine, and I noticed the relief in his features. "_-Ex-husband's _– relationship."

"It wasn't for you to do."

"You sound like Blaise."

"Then he has the right idea!"

We both sighed, and our breaths escaped into the atmosphere, frozen.

"I admit," he said, hoarsely, "I admit it wasn't for me to do. I am sorry for that... but I didn't do all harm."

"You didn't."

"Answer me this," he said, carefully, "If you and I had met under normal circumstances... could we have been... friends?"

I hesitated. "Does it matter?"

He snorted, "Of course it matters. It matters greatly."

"It doesn't. We can't be friends, now. Obviously."

"Why?"

"Because what foundation do we have? I was practically bought by you. Everything we are... its artificial."

"No it isn't." He whispered. There was so much humility, so much desperate passion in his eyes, that it hurt to look in them.

"Yes it is." I replied, shaking my head. "How can I ever trust you?"

He paused, considering. "Could I earn it?"

I looked at him, then. I was home, and the flat was behind me. Without meaning to, I'd ended up walking with him to here. The snow was falling, thick and heavy.

I was always told to give second chances, but to give them you had to trust the person you gave them to, to never hurt you again. In fairness, he'd never meant to hurt me in the first place, and if we were being brutally honest, it was Ron who'd hurt me.

But he was the precise reason why we couldn't be friends.

What could I say? Why was I reluctant to tell him no? Maybe I just craved companionship; he wasn't asking to be my husband; he was asking to be my friend.

A friend. Someone to be there, to listen, to help.

I'd only got one of those. And I'd never had a male one of those.

"Yes." I said, quietly.

His answering smile was so beautiful, it was breathtaking. The man beneath the suit was back; and he was wonderful.

"I'm home." I told him.

He nodded, "I'll call my car. I won't look at your address –"

"No... erm..." I stood, hopping from one foot to the other, and then found the courage to look into his eyes. "I mean, you could come inside to call him. Its technically your place anyway; I bought it with your money."

"It's yours." He insisted, but there was a fond look of admiration for me in his face. "And not if you don't want me to."

"No, I mean... I don't want you to become a snowman."

"Are you saying you care for me?" he raised an eyebrow.

I rolled my eyes, "Don't push it."

We walked up the path, towards the door, and I unlocked it. We walked up the stairs, and towards the loft; Ginny was out, although where exactly, I wasn't sure. I turned on the lights, and he followed behind me. He looked so right in this setting, it was alarming. The design of the flat was suited to people like him; people who looked like male-models, and posh businessmen. Nonetheless, he tried to look nonchalant. He sat down in the living room, and I offered him hot chocolate, which he accepted.

I made two hot chocolates, and gave him one, putting them both on the coffee table between us; he'd just clicked off his phone.

"I'll be out of your hair in about twenty minutes," he promised, "The snow's causing some diversions."

"Can't be stuck with you forever," I said, sarcastically. He laughed, and I tried to hide my smile.

We sipped on our hot chocolate for a while, and he said, suddenly, "You know, I could take you out. I mean, not on a date, or anything. But out... \to start again."

I considered, watching him curiously. "It's probably not a good idea."

"Why?"

"For the reasons outlined earlier," I informed him.

He shook his head, "Not on a _date – _just as friends. I could take you to dinner, and you could pretend to enjoy it."

"I'd have to pay." I said, immediately.

He laughed, "What, the entire bill?"

"It'd depend where we go." I said, rolling my eyes at him again. "It is possible to go to Pizza Hut and have a good time."

"I wouldn't know, I'd never been." He said.

I couldn't help but let my mouth drop. "Never?"

"Never." He said, but he was smiling. "Suppose you'll have to show me..."

"Well..." I said, laughingly, "Suppose so. You have very limited experience for a billionaire."

"Trust me, I have more experience than you think." His eyes were twinkling.

I stared at him, rolling my eyes again. We both knew he wasn't talking about the culinary anymore. "I'm not laughing."

"No," he agreed, "I'm just flirting."

"Why?"

"Well, can't blame a guy for trying, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes. Yes you can."

He laughed, and sipped his hot chocolate again. "You'll warm up to me, eventually."

"Keep telling yourself that one," I mused.

"I will." He said, with a wink. "No," he added, soberly. "I might be entirely wrong – we might be bosom buddies at the end of this. Or maybe not."

"Slim chance of that," I said.

"Highly likely-"

"No, very slim –"

"Huge probability-"

"1 in 10,000,000..."

We both collapsed into laughter, and then faded off. It was nice to have someone to laugh with, since it had been so long. It was a melodious sound to me, and it warmed me more than the hot chocolate.

His phone rang, and he stood up. "That'll be the car... I'd better go."

"Right," I agreed, gently. I then realised I was still wearing his coat – I started to peel it off me, but he stopped me; his hands were on mine. We both jumped at the sudden contact, before admitting the electricity that flew between us. Of course, he knew it; he was smug, then, grinning. He knew what I felt when he touched me.

"Keep it," he said, grinning at my scorn, "It suits you."

"Cheers." I said, sourly. "You can't hold my hand if we're friends though."

"I think you'll find that gesture was perfectly friendly. You're the one who's flustered," he said, grinning.

"Sod off," I mumbled, but I was blushing.

He left as easily as he came – he didn't peck me on the cheek, or shake my hand – of course, I expected neither. Instead, he waved fondly in farewell, before closing the door behind him.

When I slept that night, not only did I sleep with a huge smile on my face, but I slept not feeling quite as lonely as I did before. It wasn't love, or anything. But I wasn't alone; I had a friend on the outside world. And that was enough for the time being.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey everybody! I'm so sorry I haven't updated - I've been so busy organising stuff for University (YEP, GUYS, I GOT IN!) Anyway, without further a due...**

Chapter 11

Ginny

Nothing can quite match the feeling of scoring a winning goal. For those few seconds, as the ball flies through the air, and the entire busy field stops moving and stares, agog, as the ball is airborne. Every heartbeat can be heard. A pin could drop at the back of the stands, and it would be audible; not that it would matter. Every eye, every instinct, every prayer is focused on that ball, which spirals through the air like a tiny planet.

When it hits the bar, the clang sounds like an echo in a huge cave; the anticipation that follows is world shaking. Everyone takes a deep breath. And then the ball either topples inwards, thus bringing eternal glory; or it bounces the opposite way, and back out of play.

The latter, however, was what happened to me. Those milliseconds are unbearable; and I sink into the ground, throwing my hands into the air. The animalistic cheers of glory sound from the other team. Just that missed penalty, and it's all over. And now, their captain kneels in the muddy London field, distraught, and done.

Of course, it wasn't quite so dramatic; I was maybe over thinking it. Even so, it's never pleasing to watch your football career questioned; I was a professional footballer for fecks sake. Yes, I'd had some bad defeats, but I think this was one of the better ones. We'd been drawing until my colossal fuck up.

The other team were celebrating; primally cheering, throwing themselves over one another. Their captain was laughing; she was quite pretty. All brunette, mocha-coloured skin like an exotic sort of coffee... when she caught me looking, I half expected her to flash me the V's. To my surprise, however, she smiled and nodded respectfully back, and I couldn't help but return her smile. It was even game, after all. It was bad luck, which had caused us to lose.

* * *

Back in the locker rooms, Hooch was giving us the normal bollocking about how, if we kept losing, we'd never get into our prospective schools. That was the big dream, see, for the majority of us; myself included. I needed a scout to watch my game, and to invite me to the states, where Women's Professional football is taken seriously. To play for a real team, in a real league, rather than this bullshit.

But you had to pay your dues, I was paying mine.

"And Weasley!" Hooch bellowed; all five-foot-two of her, which her pixie cut, moustache, huge, round, owl eyes and blue tracksuit. She marched over to me and put her hands on her hips; on some days she bore a remarkable resemblance to the Terminator; a lot of the girls called her "Drill Sarge" behind her back. "What the fuck happened to you?!"

I wiped the spit which had escaped from her mouth onto my nose, and let my red hair lose. If only she knew what was wrong with me. I was having trouble concentrating, that's what was wrong. I had lost my game, over some stupid man. A man who had a wife, and kids; who'd rejected me.

Well, I'd rejected him.

"Well, Weasley, I'm waiting!"

The rest of the team took a deep intake of breath for me. I stared levelly up at her, not bothering to cover up my hatred of her. "I'm sick."

"Bullshit, Weasley. You're a captain; you're the leader here, and you're hardly behaving like one."

"Coach," began Katie Bell, from behind her, in my defence.

"Shut up, Bell." Snarled the Coach, and then she groaned. "Just get out of my sight. All of you."

We didn't need telling twice; I packed up my stuff, my discarded uniform, into my bag. I leapt out of the locker room and into the lobby. See, our humble little club was an extension of the bloke's team. Our funding had always said that if we had enough interest, they'd make a women's team which matched the men's. Of course, it generated interest, and enough women turned up to give us a job. Except senior management then changed the rules; they'd keep funding us, as long as we won.

And clearly, we weren't winning.

Senior Management was a load of bollocks; the men's team rarely ever won, and was full of sexist louts who still managed to get funding. In fact, the entire panel of Senior Management were blokes. Was it any surprise they cut our funding? Let's be honest, Drill Sarge was under a lot of pressure. She had to keep her job, make us win, and keep Senior Management happy before they cut our funding again.

Of course, when I got into the main lobby, the blokes had just finished their training. They were walking through, studs clattering against the tiles. Every inch of them was covered in mud and sweat, which plastered their hair to their foreheads. They guffawed and laughed at us as we passed; we were used to it. They despised us, and we despised them. Most of the time we ignored them, unless it got too physical.

"Hey Weasley, lose again?"

I wheeled around. Of course, it was Harry Potter, grinning and laughing with his mates. He was unsurprisingly shirtless, except for his captain's armband on his left arm, across his well formed bicep. He was excessively proud of his chest, which he showed off at every opportunity to any woman passing. He and I, however, did not get on. And nor had we ever tried.

"Hey Potter, shirtless again?"

He and his friends let out a brief, "ooooohhhh..." and Potter walked forwards. He was trying to be intimidating; I stared back at him defiantly, arms folded. I'd grown up with six brothers; I'd beaten up more than him for breakfast.

"Why, Weasley, do I distract you?"

His spread his arms wide, like he was showing himself off to some invisible panel. I merely stared back, coldly. He was such a toss wad. His Dad was the Chair of the management committee, and most of the girls tried to be affectionate to him since they still wanted their jobs at the end of it.

I'd prefer to keep my pride though.

"How about fuck off?" I snapped. Their raucous cheers were annoying – Dean and Seamus clapped their hands on each other's backs, and Harry threw his head into the air, laughing.

"Ah, Weasley. You know we can't do that. See," Harry said, with a mock-news readers tone, "You see, we actually win shit. You guys don't."

"Yeah, because we don't get the funding or support that you do!"

"Or because you're a bunch of girls?" Seamus suggested.

"We win just as much as you do." I said, fiercely. "You have no more, or no less talent than we do."

"I wouldn't count on it, Weasley!" called Potter, as I turned my back to him, walking steadily out of the lobby, "You're only talent is washing the dishes and making sandwiches!"

I slammed the door closed behind me, shutting it on their awful laughter. I ran a hand tiredly through my hair, and then realised, startled, that I wasn't alone.

The other captain was leaning casually against the wall. I didn't recognise her at first, without the uniform; although, we were all different on the field. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a messy ponytail; her mocha skin contrasting perfectly with a black, short dress and leather jacket. I was jealous of her legs; they were miles long, all the way up to her chin, showed off by those expensive-looking heels, short black dress and that brown, mocha skin.

She smiled as she saw me; she was smoking, a cigarette (somehow) elegantly placed between her lips.

"Evening," she said, although the sound was muffled by the fag. She took out of her mouth, as I stared at her, puzzled. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not stalking you, or anything. I was actually having a fag before I went out."

"Where are you going?" I found myself asking, even though it was probably none of my business.

She didn't seem too perturbed. Casually, she shrugged, like she got asked this all the time. "To a party; the girls want to go out to celebrate our victory. Can't really be arsed myself, though."

"So that's why you're all dressed up?" I asked her. She offered me a fag, but I declined. Instead I sat on a bench which was free.

She smirked and walked over to me, sitting down next to me. "Well, maybe I like dressing up. Besides which, I was hiding from those animals you call your male team. It was one wolf-whistle too many."

"Yeah, you learn not to display any flesh around them." I said.

"Noticed." She jerked her head towards the locker rooms, "That Potter's a piece of work."

"Yeah, he is."

"Shame he fancies you."

I blinked at her. She had said it so casually, I'd wondered if she'd said anything at all. "What?"

"He fancies you," she said, with a shrug. "Any fool can tell."

"Well you were telling wrong," I said, easily. "He's really not my type."

"No," she said, although she looked alarmingly glad about that. "He's not mine, either."

She stared at me, then, until the penny dropped. It didn't take long to realise precisely why he wasn't her type; she grinned, chuckling.

"I mean, you know, I'm not –" I stammered, both alarmed and embarrassed.

"No, I figured not." She said, although her eyes were twinkling. "Mind, it's a shame." She leaned forwards then, and her breath brushed against my face. It was weird; it didn't smell completely like fags. It smelt of fresh mint, with that fag smell mixed in. "_You_ are my type."

I stared at her, both intrigued and alarmed. How often was it that you were chatted up by a woman? Especially one as stunning as she was. Of course, I didn't swing that way, like. There wasn't a lot of point in her trying.

She leaned back and put the fag to her lips, taking a long drag; our eyes were still connected and her was laughing. "Chill out, I won't try and convert you. Actually, I want to congratulate you on the loss."

"Cheers. Thanks for gloating."

"Anytime." She said, and she laughed. "You know, you're pretty good. Like, I'm average. You're brilliant."

"Yeah, but I still lost." I said, in a short reply.

"Not by much. By an inch either way," she said, and she took a drag again. She turned to look at me, "If you had the right funding, the right... friends."

Her gaze floated over to the locker room again, and I blinked in disgust, already knowing what she was thinking. "Oh... God... no way! Besides which, he doesn't even –"

"Thought you batted that way." She said, and she was laughing again.

"I do," I said, and then I found myself laughing. "That said, I don't have much to measure it against."

"You should try it," She mused, finishing the fag and flicking it off into the distance.

"I don't think so." I said, laughingly.

"Then how do you know who you like, precisely?" she said.

Of course, that was quite logical. And therefore, quite frustratingly truthful. "I don't," I said, truthfully. "But I've just come out of... something. I don't want to jump into something else."

"Best way to get over a man is to get under another one," she mused, and then she laughed, "Or a woman even. Come on, I'll buy you a drink. I'm Angelina, by the way. Angelina Johnson."

* * *

_Blaise_

There were two things I was certain of. Luna knew that I'd been somewhere, that I'd betrayed her. The second was that she wasn't speaking to me properly, she hadn't been in days.

After I came home that night, when she held me, and told me not to leave, I'd discovered the following morning that things were not the same between us. I wasn't sure if she knew precisely _where _I'd been, or to what extent, but she certainly knew I'd been with another.

Luna was doing shift after shift at the hospital. So many shifts, that I was stuck at home, looking after Imogen and Karen. Not 'stuck' - that was probably the wrong word. But I'd be lying if I said a part of me didn't crave "out". A part of me didn't crave the youth and adventure of being with Ginny. In fact, I even picked up the phone a few times before I remembered I'd made my choice. And it was a choice I was going to stick to.

Karen and Imogen hadn't noticed the rift in Luna and I's relationship. To them, everything was still the same. Except their Father now picked them up from school, rather than their Mother. In fact they were happy to have me around more; together we played hide and seek, we watched all of those clever, weird and wacky pixar films. I familiarised myself with the order of their morning. How to get themselves ready; parting and brushing their hair, doing up their ties and feeding them breakfast.

It was one morning where Luna came down, blonde hair messy from a restless night, and she paused in the doorway. I didn't realise she was there until the girls and I turned, ready to go out of the door.

For the first time in a week, Luna smiled at me.

The office was calling me, and so was Malfoy, rather persistently. I'd text him "Out of town for a few days" and turned off my mobile. When I'd gotten back from dropping the girls off, Luna was sat in our expensive kitchen, sipping dark coffee. She'd had a shower, and the towel was wrapped, like a turban, around her hair.

She smiled invitingly at me to join her; it felt sinister, in a way; I knew and she knew that I'd been unfaithful. Yet, here she was. Not angry, just in love with me, as she always had been.

I sat down next to her, and she had already gotten me a coffee.

"I know." Luna said. It was sudden, and it slipped from her mouth before she'd even thought the words consciously. She looked confident though, as she watched my reaction; puzzled, saddened, guilty. Especially guilty. "I've known for months."

That was the surprise. She sipped levelly on her coffee, still calm. I was horror-struck, embarrassed.

"Look – its okay, Blaise. I've been denying it, I've been pretending that I didn't listen in on your calls, read your text messages to her. I've been pretending, and I can't keep the energy to do that anymore."

"Luna, I'm –"

"Save it," she said, dryly. She wasn't even remotely upset, or not on the surface. The Irish lilt in her voice was hard, defensive.

"I-"

"Look, Blaise." She said, her voice was soft, now. Eyes earnest. "I love our children. I love them so much; and you do too. I'm impressed by your behaviour these past few days while I've been recuperating –"Recuperating over what, I didn't ask. " – And you've become their Father again. It would be... unfair, for us to deny them that."

"So what are you saying?" I asked her. I felt the fear pump through my veins. I couldn't lose my children; what an idiot I'd been. She had been wrestling with the decision of whether to leave me or not for the past few months.

"I'm saying..." she paused, electric blue eyes staring into space, before wheeling into mine, "I'm saying we can try and make this work, Blaise. You gave up..." she paused, struggling on her name, "... _G.. her... _for me. For your family. Of course, you should never have had her in the first place. But the thing is, you've fallen out of love with me."

I stared back at her, confused, then upset. I grasped her hand, "Out of love? With you?"

She averted my gaze.

"Luna, I have always loved you. Ever since I first laid eyes on you... since we were seventeen."

"Let me ask you this," she began, "You went off with... Gin... Ginny," she shuddered, her mouth somehow dirtied. "Because you hadn't slept with me, had any attention off me. When was the last time," her voice broke, and she fought back the tears, "When was the last time you touched me like that? When was the last time you hung around after you fucked me, Blaise? When was the last time you told me you love me?"

"I tell you all the time..."

"Saying 'you too' isn't telling me, Blaise!" Luna cried, and the tears began to spill. She half-dropped the coffee mug to the table and it clattered. Her head was in her hands, and she wept hopelessly.

"I'm sorry." I said, and I tried to hold her hands. She shook me free, disgusted – and then stood up. Her hands found her hips as she stood over me, tear-stained, even grief stricken, as she looked at the lover she'd lost to someone else.

"If you're sorry then you'll belt up, and move on. Things will never be the same," she warned me, sternly. Her motherly-instincts were back, and I felt even more guilty, forcing her to adopt it rather than grieve like she should. "Not between us."

"Not unless we try. Ginny and I are over; I was stupid, and ridiculous to sacrifice what I had."

"Yes, you were." She said, softly. But her eyes were still so harsh. "And who said I wanted to try?"

I stared at her, almost in horror. Then I saw her eyes soften again, "Who said I possibly could ever trust you again, Blaise?"

"What are you saying?" I choked, in disbelief.

"I'm saying I'll still stayed married to you, I'm saying I'll still be your wife on paper, but that's all. And it's only for the girls' sake. From this moment on, consider us as pretence."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Trust

Hermione

The acceptance letters came only days afterwards. Placements from amazing schools, posh grammar schools, of all ages and sizes and places, all writing to me to beg for me to come and do a teaching placement there. Universities writing letter after letter, begging me to come and do my degree there; Cambridge, Oxford, York, Warwick, 's, Sheffield, Bristol... all of these Universities, begging for me to attend...

And I know exactly who was to blame.

I knew I shouldn't have told him about all the problems I was having; I knew he'd have to meddle in it somehow. In fact, I should have been relieved. My faith in my future was restored, since the majority of the time I was terrified that the dreaded letter from Ron's lawyers would arrive asking for 1 million pounds, which I frankly did not have anymore. I had about a quarter of it left.

In reality, though, I was angry at Malfoy; it wasn't his place to meddle, even if his intentions were strictly honourable. What right did he have to meddle in my life in the first place? He had no right; I hardly gave him permission. If he thought that he could buy me again my getting me a place at University, he was wrong.

"I don't know what you're so upset about," he said, chuckling. His deep chuckle made the phone vibrate against my ear, and it was as though his breath was raising Goosebumps on my skin, despite my rage. I was frustrated, since I kept going all weak and floppy around him, rather than be as bolshie as always. The longer I spent around him, the worse I got. And, much to my dismay, the more I enjoyed his company.

"What I'm upset about," I said, burning red and stammering into the phone, "Is that I should be allowed to make my own choices –"

"As I remember, you should have about twenty top Universities writing to you."

I opened my mouth, and closed it again, speechless. He often had this effect on me, and everyone else for that matter.

"The point is, people want you." He said. He then added, "People as well as me, I mean. And it's all on you. Not me; you're the one with the grades... I just gave them a... nudge in your direction."

"Yeah, more like a shove." I sighed, tiredly. "Fine."

"Anyway, that wasn't the reason I was ringing. I was actually ringing because I wanted to take you out tonight."

The words echoed for about five minutes; or maybe that was because I was literally speechless. I blinked and felt the excitement tingle all over my skin, and the huge block of (what felt like) wood was in my throat.

"I mean," he laughed in that peal of bells way he normally did. "If you want to."

"And if I don't?"

"Well, that's fine. But you'd be doing a friend a great favour if you did." The emphasis hovered around 'friend' for my benefit. "I mean, I have to go to a silly benefit tonight for cervical cancer... there's a charity auction or something; Blaise is..." his voice dropped, and you could hear the threatening anger behind it. It even scared me. "... away. So I could do with someone with me."

"And then people will think we're together." I said. My voice was stronger than I felt.

He laughed. "Why, are we?"

"No."

"Well then." His grin could be heard in his voice. I sighed.

"Fine,"

"Cool. I'll have a dress dropped off tonight."

"I still have – " I cut myself off. The truth was I wasn't sure if I liked the thought of being dressed up in the artificial clothes he felt so suited me. So I would have rather have made done with the dress I still had, which he had already bought for me on... that night. But it would have brought back the night – at least in memory, and I'd vowed to myself I'd never think of it again.

I think he knew what I was getting at. And you could hear the satisfaction in his voice, when he realised I was trying not to think of it. By trying not to think of it, I clearly was.

"Good," He said, "I'll have someone drop you something about six. I'll pick you up at eight."

"Right. And is it full of posh, upper class tories?"

"Yeah, pretty much. But no worries. You don't even have to say anything, or interact. Then after I've shown my face, opened it, we can go and get a pizza."

The thought of something so normal, as to go and get a pizza really appealed to me. Maybe it was because it was a relief to see Malfoy do something so ordinary.

"Okay," I said, still guarded.

"And you can show me pizza hut." He breathed.

I felt my face redden considerably. "I –urm – right."

"You sound distracted," he said, and the smirk was in his voice again.

"I'm not." I said flatly, trying to tell the truth.

"Hmm... see you at eight."

And with that, he was gone.

When he knocked at the door, I half stumbled towards him, then remembered that I'd put it on the catch on purpose.

"It's open," I called, still pulling on my shoe.

The door opened slightly, and in he walked. His suit was black and sleek, hair gently pulled back from his face; as handsome as always, his face seemed to light up when he saw me. His suit gave the oddest silhouette of robust muscle underneath, as he stood, leaning back against the door, taking me in.

The change was rather drastic. My hair was down, in curls which framed my face. The dress he picked out, rather tactfully, did not have a price tag (thank god, or else I probably wouldn't have worn it - I'd have been terrified that the slightest movement might get it dirty). It was blue, and long; simplistic, but curved to the shape of my waist and modestly framed my hips. It was very beautiful; strapless. Its chiffon clung to my curves, and seemed to illuminate my pale skin.

"You look... beautiful." He said, and his eyes told me he meant it.

I tried not to be happy with that. "Your dress," I said, standing up straight, finally pulling on my heel.

He smiled, "I don't think it would fit me."

I frowned, "Probably would. You're skinnier than me."

He grinned, "Clever."

"Thanks." I said, laughingly. "I'm a lot fatter... although your muscle probably adds..." I paused, finding myself staring at his chest, the muscle undoubtedly underneath. He grinned, catching me looking.

"Come now," he said, laughing. "I'll have you know, I've traced every single one of your curves." He moved forwards, illustrating his point by running his hand along my left side; the thrill of it left me breathless. Unintentionally, my head fell to one side. Such a cliché. I mentally screamed at myself to get a grip; but somehow, I was trapped by his electric gaze. "And under my inspection, not one of them was fat."

I was in his eyes, reflected. My gaze was as strong as his was – and his hand was still at my waist, fingers warm through the thin chiffon. Our chests were centimetre's away, and our breaths mutually speedy.

"Does that work on all the girls?" I asked him. My voice was shaking, but my eyes were fire. I was biting my lips, to stop myself from shivering.

"Mostly," he whispered, "Although just lately, only you will do."

I stared into his eyes, "This is wrong you know; you said we'd be friends."

"We are." He said, but my comment made him pull away. He seemed to remember himself, throwing a hand through his hair. He offered me his hand. "Well, I'm trying, anyway. It's hardly fair when you're so beautiful."

He wasn't playing fair either. I was only beautiful draped in the artificiality of these expensive fabrics and clothes, in his crystal gaze. It wasn't real to me; his love wasn't real to me. It could be bought just as I could. It hurt, to know that my unwilling fondness for him was because of these favours and connections he harboured. Not because I wanted to know him, but because I was lucky since he found me beautiful. Nonetheless; he was trying to love me, and trying to let me love him. I knew there was hope there, since sometimes, I would glimpse the man beneath the suit and sometimes, I would like what I saw; however, instead, his artificial self dominated. The one who bought me, and felt that I would desire him for his money and numerous connections. Not the one who stood here now, beautiful eyes unwilling to leave mine, the man beneath the suit visible there, somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

The car horn sounded, and we snapped apart; however, his hand which was outstretched was still there, persistent.

"We'd better go." I said, gently.

"Yes," He agreed, but he was still offering his hand.

Unconsciously, but certainly not unwillingly, I took it.

* * *

Malfoy sighed; he'd been quiet for the majority of the journey, still holding my hand. The back of the Rolls Royce was warm and spacious, and our entwined hands were on the seat between us. He ran his other hand through his hair again, looking bored and gloomy; I wondered if it was something I did. I felt immediately guilty.

"Are you okay?"

He looked up at the sound of my voice, and my concern registered in his eyes. "Yes, it's just I always find these things so... boring."

"Why?" I asked him. He always seemed so at home with his lifestyle.

He paused, chewing over some words; as we passed through the streets of London, the lights from the houses reflected in his eyes. "Because I can't say what I think. If I go alone, then doubly so." He turned to look at me, and there was sadness in his eyes, "Money traps you, more than it frees you. It cements you into a lifestyle which determines who you are for the rest of your life."

"Are you saying you don't like money?" I asked him. I didn't pity him exactly, but the curiosity was all too much.

"Radix Malorum Est Cupiditas, remember?" he said, and his lips pulled up into a smile. The faithful old words, _the love of money is the root of all evil._

The memory of our first meeting came back into my mind, and I registered the change in how I was around him. How much I hated him and disliked him then, and how odd it was, now, to hold his hand.

"I remember."

He chuckled, "Not everyone is as impassive about money as you are, Hermione. To them, where we're going, money is everything. Some of them were born into it, some of them earned it, just like I did... nonetheless, and not all of them deserve their money. I suppose I needed someone I could trust tonight, and, selfishly, I bought you because I knew I could trust you."

"It's not selfish," I told him, and he turned to look at me. "It's understandable."

He considered, "If I could help it, I wouldn't expose you to them. Nonetheless, I suggest we get in and get out."

The car pulled up, and he smiled at me, but it was a sad smile. It made me feel anxious, yet his hand made me feel reassured. We made our way into the building; it was a huge, architectural triumph; an old museum, its wide marble pillars welcoming us inside where a soft yellow light illuminated the entrance hall. It drew the people inside like moths to a flame, out of the chilly November evening. I was glad to see that my dress at least blended in; they were all in elegant evening-wear, a few with fur stoles around their necks. My own black coat and scarf was tight around me; I knew, by comparison, I didn't quite fit the picture. Combined with walking inside on Malfoy's arm, together, we gathered a lot of attention. A few stopped and whispered; Malfoy's hand curled up into mine, tightly.

The entrance hall was huge, almost cavernous. A crystal chandelier reflected thousands of slithers of light around the room, like the gawping faces of some forgotten paparazzi. Staircases led up both sides of the room to higher floors, and two double doors invited us further; a waiter in his little waistcoat and bowtie took my coat, and I felt instantly less embarrassed; my heavy black mac was clearly out of place in this world. Nonetheless, Malfoy smiled at me, knowingly; giving me one more look before he offered his arm.

"The trick," he said, gently in my ear, "Is to never be _anywhere _alone. Or anywhere near –" Malfoy cut off, and I saw who he was looking at. It was Blaise – at the other side of the room. A curvy, voluptuous blonde was next to him, her blue eyes investigating the room. They were stood next to one another but not quite _together; _they're body language at least told spectator's so. Her arms were folded, watching the dancers, and he was looking at her anxiously; guiltily even.

"I thought you said that Blaise was –"

"I thought so." Malfoy said, his voice calm despite the confusion underneath it. "I have no idea what's going on. He'd never lie, not unless it was life or death."

"Must have been." I said, quickly; I didn't want to be anywhere near Blaise. Ever since I'd seen him in my apartment I'd been freaked out by the thought of _ever _seeing him again and mortally embarrassed.

When the Lady stood with Blaise saw Malfoy, her eyes travelled to our entwined hands, and her face seemed to light up. She had the most peculiar blue eyes and vividly blonde hair; almost white. I supposed she was self-conscious maybe, because of her dress; she wasn't stick thin, but she wasn't entirely fat either. Her curves were well hidden under a loose black dress; she was obviously not a fan of her own figure. Even so, I thought she was incredibly striking. My heart warmed to her when I heard the Irish lilt and humour in her soft voice; "Draco, you sly old dog! Not saying hello to me!"

She walked over to us and Blaise followed, averting Malfoy's gaze; Malfoy looked from Blaise to his wife confused for a moment, and then Malfoy laughed half-heartedly and pecked her on the cheek as she pulled him into a rib-cracking hug. She released him, and they were both laughing.

"Luna, I haven't seen you in ages. Where has Blaise been hiding you?"

"I know! You should come around to dinner, Draco! I keep telling Blaise; Karen and Imogen miss you!"

Blaise's gaze flickered for a moment between Draco and I, and there was a deep look of dread. Dread which only I seemed to pick up on. What was his problem?

"Plus, you could bring your friend!" Luna chortled, then she grinned, "Aren't you going to introduce me?!"

She was so bubbly, had so much energy, that I was almost taken-a-back. She reminded me a little of Ginny in that way.

"Right, right," said Draco, laughing, "This is my friend, Hermione. Hermione, this is Blaise; who you know, obviously, and this is his wife, Luna."

"Lovely to meet you!" she beamed, and shook my hand like I was some God.

"And you," I said warmly, although some of the feeling of it was taken away by Blaise's panicked glances in my direction.

* * *

_Ginny_

Her flat was huge, and spacious. I didn't really understand how someone so down to earth could own such an expensive place, and me so nonchalant about it. In fairness, though, I was just too drunk to care. We spilled into the Flat, and fell on top of one another, laughing.

"Shh!" Angelina hissed, but she was trying to hide her snorts. She placed her hand firmly over my mouth and she grinned, kissing where my lips were under her hand.

I giggled again, and she reluctantly seemed to let me go.

"Do you have anywhere to be in the morning?" she asked me, and her eyes were twinkling.

I considered. I had training at 2p.m. and that was about it. So, really, I had nowhere to be in the _morning. _

"Errr... No," I slurred. Of course the saner, more coherent side of me knew there was very little need to slur my words, that I was perfectly capable of saying things properly before I put the thoughts into action; however, the alcohol made me had a habit of saying precisely what was on my mind, and to slur my words, like my mouth was swollen.

"Excellent," she grinned. Why was she so much more sober than me? Maybe she drank often. She walked over to the kitchen cupboards as I got to my feet. I decided that meant she had offered me to stay the night.

She emerged with two large bottles of vodka, and grabbed my hand, pulling me towards the sofas. The flat must have been open planned, because I didn't remember going through any doors, I just remembered falling into the sofa, and starting to laugh until my eyes were streaming.

She handed me a bottle all to myself and I sat up, taking a large gulp. I knew it was probably a mistake, but I'd pay for it in the morning. I downed it and the sharp blow-up-your-head feeling emerged; the one I hadn't had for a while. Exclusively, I wasn't a vodka drinker. Beer was my thing; but I felt so depressed, alcohol was the way of curing my blues.

I paused, because something just occurred to me. "Angelina..."

"Yeah?"

"Why did you want me to stay the night?"

She frowned, "I enjoy your company?"

"Really? Is that all?"

"You sound disappointed?" she said, high arches of her eyebrows suspicious.

Was I disappointed? I felt defeated, somehow, worn out.

She laughed; it was a wicked laugh, like a witch. She pulled off her high heeled boots and stretched her legs out next to me. The light reflected their mocha colour with a beautiful sheen. "Well, if you were wondering if I'd been getting you drunk to have my wicked way with you... I suppose you were pretty much right."

I stared at her; she wasn't joking. She was solemn, despite the alcohol. Her brown eyes glittered mischievously, and even provocatively.

I was half-uncomfortable, half-curious. Actually, a part of me did want to. Maybe the drunk, silly side. But yeah, the side that was so depressed about not being able to hold down a man, that she drank herself into happiness; that side.

"Look, Angelina..."

"Don't spare my feelings, or anything." She said, quickly. It was the only time I'd seen her nervous all night. I found that human-side to her immensely appealing. "Honestly, I'm all in favour of one night stands. It's just, it helps my game, you know."

I knew what she meant. I'd said the same about me and Blaise, that's how I used to convince myself that it was okay.

"It's just," I continued, "I've just got out of a relationship-"

"So you've said," she said, and she laughed again. "Obviously you're just not over it."

I was appalled at that statement. I was over it – yes, perhaps that was the alcohol – but I was. I mean I felt over it.

"I am so!"

"Clearly aren't, or else we wouldn't be having this problem," she was grinning – and then, she blinked, and excitement flushed her cheeks. "I know what you should do! I know how you can get over him!"

I frowned, "How?"

She smirked provocatively, "Hand me your phone?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Hey!**

**I'm so sorry its taken such a long time to get this to you. I've genuinely been that busy with Uni, that I've had like zero time to write - read? Yes. I've actually read more in the past month that I have in _my entire life... _but hopefully that should help to create a more versatile writer for you to enjoy!**

**So, thanks for the support and views and kind words. There has been so much enthusiasm about this story that it continues - even in my absence - to thrive. Hope you like the new chapter, and I'll try and get up 14 a lot quicker than this one! **

**Cheers!**

Chapter 13

I want you

Blaise

The bathroom was a white marble, I think. In all honesty, I wasn't sure. It was spinning too much. I forcefully grabbed the edges of the sink and stared at my reflection, with determined gaze, begging it to be still.

I'd brought this all on myself. God, karma was cruel. My affair with Ginny had spoilt everything, and it was all because I was such a hopeless mess. My wife no longer loved me, and my children were the only thing I had left.

I was a hopeless Father, a hopeless husband and a hopeless friend. I was on a crash collision to destruct, and for everything to blow up in my face.

The door of the bathroom opened, and, to my embarrassment, Hermione and Draco walked inside. They were laughing about something; their hands were intertwined. The two looked imperceptibly at home together, and Draco looked happier than I'd ever seen him.

But I was too much of a chicken to see my best-friend yet; to deal with the conclusions he had drawn. Of course, I didn't know precisely what he'd told her, or how much either of them knew, but I knew I couldn't deal with it right now. So, like a coward, I hid.

I compacted myself into a cubicle, and slid the door closed behind me, stepping up onto the toilet seat. If only those upper class idiots could see me now, I thought, sardonically to myself. I could see the two of them stop in front of the sink, still laughing, through the gap between the wooden door of the cubicle and the marble stall.

"I'm sorry I spilt my drink on you." She was saying – she sounded embarrassed, but good old Draco was much too nice not to laugh it off. I remember once on a business trip in Italy, a waitress had managed to spill his drink on him. Her boss tried to fire her, despite Malfoy's pleas. Portia was now one of Draco's many P.A.'s. "It's a good job -" she continued – through the crack in the door, I could she her scrubbing away at his chest with some tissue; he stood there, looking like all his Christmases had come at once. "– these bathrooms are unisex."

"Honestly, it's okay. I have that many Armani suits that they become disposable."

She laughed, "They're worth more than me."

He stared at her, and his hand came over hers on his chest. She looked up into his eyes, and her hand stopped moving. In fact, I'm pretty sure the Earth stopped moving for a few seconds, and I was merely a spectator. I almost felt embarrassed watching. "No they aren't." He said, with the deep rumble of his voice.

"Even so," she mumbled; she tried to disconnect from his gaze... eventually, she succeeded, and her hand began to move again against his chest, scrubbing away the stain.

He sighed, and stared off into the opposite direction. I understood; they had decided that could not be anything more than friends, even though it was clear that something existed between them. He looked tired, as he had these past few weeks, but determined.

He smirked, then, in that familiar way he did, and then turned to her.

"Would it maybe be easier for you if I took off my shirt?"

Before she could answer or obviously form coherent speech, he slickly unbuttoned his white shirt and pulled it over his head. Even I had to admit he looked good; all the robust, well-used muscle of him. His perfectly toned chest and slim stomach muscles, leading off into his black, expensively cut trousers.

She looked like she was drooling; she stared him up and then down, and then blushed; he laughed, and triumphant, offered her the shirt to take.

She coughed, and murmured, "You don't fight fair."

"Nope. I don't. Besides which, what are you fighting?"

She paused, hesitating on some words before returning to scrub, putting pressure on it against the marble counter top. I could see their reflections in the mirrored wall. He was watching her, inspecting the way her hands worked against the expensive cotton; she was reddening, trying not to look in the mirror at his chest. The two of them were almost adorable together.

He leaned forwards, pale chest reflecting the light. Quite easily, he said, "Why are you pretending?"

She paused again, and this time, she didn't pretend that she did not know what he was talking about.

"I'm frightened."

"Of what?" he appealed.

She didn't try to scrub anymore, and instead, she stared in front of her, at their reflections in the mirror. It was easier than looking at him, into those pale, almost persuasive eyes. He had that effect on everyone; it was one of his natural talents. But to Hermione it was surely much more of a gift.

"I'm scared of what people will think. I'm scared of being bought again by you, and I'm terrified that what we have isn't real. That I'm constantly being bought by you."

She finished, and you could see the emotion in her eyes; how long, I wondered, had she worried? How many sleepless nights had she relieved their time together, both waking and unconscious?

He thought for a moment, and then his hand crept under her chin. Her tears were tangible; even I could feel them from where I hid.

With his thumb he wiped it away, and then he held her gaze. "I will never buy you again," he whispered, "I can't buy you again. I bought you because you said you couldn't be bought, remember? Even if I had you for one night, you were never truly mine." He paused, and then both his hands found her face, and her eyes found his, "Only you can give me you. But the truth is, I want this," he whispered to her, intently, "I want you."

"Why?" she said, dumbfounded, confused.

He laughed, "Why did Romeo want Juliet? I don't know. But I promise you, it's only you." He added, "And you shouldn't care was people think; especially _those_ people out there... just do whatever makes you happy."

"Do I make you happy?" Hermione asked him, carefully.

He answered immediately. "Happier than I've been for a long time. I know I don't make you happy, but in time –"

"You do make me happy," she whispered, and his mouth slammed shut. He was aghast, and so happy that it radiated from him.

"Then it's that simple," he said, and she laughed shakily.

Their two lips met, and her hands swam through his hair. I felt immediately guilty, like a trespasser on such a private, jubilant moment, and for doubting that she loved him. She dared, even, to let her hands roam his robust chest. He was holding her closely, savouring the feel of his lips against hers, even trying to control himself, or so it appeared.

They surfaced for air, and Draco only moved away to press kisses against her neck, her chest, murmuring her name with desperation and complete jubilation. She anchored her hand into the base of his neck as he pressed her against the sink, placing her there for he could get a better angle on their kiss.

"Someone might –" she tried to say, in-between kisses, "Someone might – come – in... walk in..."

"Let them," he replied, and he kissed her chest as she sighed crushing herself against him. He paused, and found her eyes, "I don't care what anyone else thinks. I only care for you."

She surrendered to him, and kissed him again; like two teenagers, exploring the feeling of one another with brief familiarity.

The door opened, suddenly, and my heart sank. It was Luna, and when she saw Malfoy and Hermione he face lit up with happiness. Typical Luna, always thinking of others; she'd been so worried for Malfoy for such a long time.

The two detached themselves from one another and awkwardly laughed with her; she smiled, beaming.

"Don't mind me," she said, laughingly, "Pretend I-"

She cut off, and then heard a phone ringing. It was the voices of two little girls as its ring tone; "Daddy, your phones ringing" repeated lots of times. The identity of that phone was obvious, and it was Draco who saw it vibrating endlessly on the countertop before he swept it up.

Draco looked confused, disbelieving as he went to pass it to Luna; Luna shook her head, calmly and looked bittersweet as she said, "Answer it. Click speakerphone."

I breathed in inside the cubicle, holding my breath. The phone was mine, and the caller was someone I knew only too well. Someone who held the power to destroy everything I was.

"Blaise... this is Ginny!" it was a drunken slur, and giggling could be heard in the background. I saw Hermione's hand slap against her mouth, for she had realised the truth long before the others; yes, Ginny's lover was me.

"I'm over you!" came the slur, "What we had was pure... sex..." she collapsed into drunken laughter, and it rang around the room, that last word, for ages. "... And now I've found someone better, someone..." she collapsed into laughter, "Someone better than you, and your stupid wife! The one who you said you didn't love! Well guess what? You do because you wouldn't fuck me, would you?" she was angry now, and then she cooled it, "I found someone better than you, who is a better fuck than you ever were!"

The collapse of giggles as the phone closed off, and all three people stared at it, levelly, as the damage tore through the room; and my wife, distraught, yet oddly calm as the tears strolled down her face, turned on her heel and left the bathroom.

* * *

Ginny

We were still laughing, and I threw my mobile phone across the room. It exploded somewhere far away before I could really think about the results of my actions. Angelina topped up my glass with vodka, but we both knew I wasn't going to drink this one. No, not this time.

I was so elated, so empowered for the first time in weeks, which I had to show her, to tell her. So, before I knew what I was doing, I leaned forwards and pressed my lips against hers.

She was taken aback at first; and then she accepted my kiss, finding my hands and slicking them against my jean-clad thighs. Within moments our tongues were doing the strangest drunken dance; it was exotic, exciting, but alcohol-fuelled. I had never kissed a woman before, and nor had I ever slept with one. Nonetheless, she proved an excellent host.

Her hands found mine and guided them to the places she liked best, whispered what she wanted. When my mouth attacked her beautifully smooth legs, I thought her hands would puncture the floor she was gripping; when I removed her underwear, and she lay there before me, I thought I'd never seen anything more exotic; when her legs invited me to taste her centre, I thought it was remarkable she could do it with such poise; when my mouth kissed there, I thought her scream would bring the entire building down.

She rocked against me, my hands everywhere as she showed me how to have her. Not a body part was unsearched, not a place was untouched; I'd decided she was a Goddess; we played out various scenarios by touch, by taste, by scent. Her hips finally bucked, and, spent, her final moan made electricity flow through me.

I collapsed next to her, drunk and deliriously happy. We both laughed and she turned on her side. Our eyes met momentarily, before she said, "My turn..."

And as I laughed, she began undoing my jeans.

* * *

Angelina

The morning streamed through the windows, and I covered my eyes just as the alarm sounded for work. Ah fuck. I knew this vodka would come back to bite me. I slumped forwards in bed and inspected Ginny, snoring on next to me as I slammed the button with my fist, to turn off the alarm.

She was completely naked, so three guesses what we did last night! I laughed softly to myself – I remembered some parts, but other parts were sketchy.

Ginny mumbled next to me, and turned over; I'd shagged plenty of women who had never been with another woman in their lives. It was a relief to be an experience and enlighten a few.

I stood up and stretched, and walked over to the shower. Being naked had never bothered me, not in public and not in the bedroom; I wasn't one of those women who put on clothes as soon as they slept with someone; for one thing, I loved my figure. I had to be, I suppose, since I regularly stripped in the locker rooms for football practise; nonetheless, even at football there were girls who hid their bodies under towels. What was the point? Might as well not fumble around under a towel and fall over and love your body.

Mind, I sometimes wondered if they were worried I would perve on them or something. Not everyone took the Lesbian thing as well as some. Well, not that I exactly classed myself as "gay". I suppose curious was the best way to describe me.

I switched the shower on and let the water run over me, lathering up the soap and shampoo; it was a perfectly ordinary morning for me I supposed. I mean, I wasn't exactly a player or anything. I didn't mercilessly shag women and leave them in bed, but I had been with lots of women. I liked the companionship; it was a lonely life, was mine.

Rita always said not to mix your personal life and work life.

Speaking of which; I had to be in the office soon. I shut off the shower taps and walked back into the bedroom, searching for a towel to dry myself with.

Ginny was awake, propped up against her pillow; she smiled when she saw me. I remembered instantaneously why I had chosen Ginny; that long auburn hair and the wide, trusting smile. God, she was so young.

"Do you have to be somewhere?"

I paused. I wished I could tell her everything; even so, I was naked before her and dripping wet. "I'm working this morning."

"Are you training?"

Oh yeah, she thought I was a footballer full time, not recreationally. "Yeah," I said, easily. Well it wasn't exactly a lie; I was working, even if I wasn't exactly _training._

"That's too bad," she whispered, and she crept forward on the mattress, and stopped in front of me, kneeling up on the mattress, "I'm free till 2."

I considered; truthfully, I did like Ginny. I probably would have stayed if I didn't have to go to work. That said, it was 8 now, and I was probably going to be late anyway. Might as well be late for a reason.

So, I dropped to my knees and kissed her, appealing her legs to open with one hand, and pressing my other hand to the place they revealed.

* * *

They were already in the boardroom by the time I rolled into work at 10. Fuck fuck fuck; forgot I had this meeting thing. I was so shit. I said to Ginny that she could use the flat as long as she wanted; when she asked if we could go out again, I sort of dodged the question – I was running late, and Rita was going to kill me. She'd probably guess that I was out last night now I was _this _late.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I opened the door to the boardroom and walked in; I was still buttoning up my blouse and tying back my hair, and I stormed in to the entire board of staff; Rita stood at the front. As soon as she saw me, she rolled her eyes, disappointed. The other majority of the staff were so used to us being late, they said and did nothing.

I nodded at a few work friends from my department, and stood in the crowd; she swiftly carried on with her presentation.

"Anyway," she said, over her red spectacles. Her blonde curls and tiny pointed teeth were bizarrely sharp in the light of the projector, and contrasted with her deep green designer suit. "As I was saying, our reporters last night spotted Draco Malfoy with some blonde, frizzy haired – " she looked up at the table – a few hands were raised, including mine. Why was this news?

"Yes?" she asked Colin Creevey, one of our photographers, tiredly.

"Who is this Malfoy bloke? I mean, I know he's a billionaire, but they generally don't make front page news."

There was a murmur of agreement, and Rita sighed.

"We received an anonymous tip a few days ago that there are plans to sue Mr Malfoy and his newest beau, whom were both seen at that party, last night. It could be nothing, but it might be something. Allegedly, Draco Malfoy paid this woman one million pounds for one night with her. Now it would seem that he's still paying her."

"So your new front page news is, 'MALFOY PAYS PROSTITUTE FOR COMPANY'?" I laughed, "That's silly."

Everyone stared at me; if I wasn't Rita's best reporter I would not have gotten away with that.

"Anyway, we have also learned that Malfoy's friend Blaise Zabini might the key to unlocking this entire thing. I've had people researching this morning; as it turns out, Zabini's recently started not running the industry for his old pal. He's also been having an affair; it must mean they've fallen out, no? So I propose we offer Zabini two mill for the scoop on Malfoy; then we need to find out who this woman who was with him is."

There was a murmur of agreement and excitement; meanwhile, my brain was foggily trying to recall that name, which I'd heard before. Zabini... Blaise... Zabini. I foggily searched my brain, drawing up blanks. Then, through the drunken stupor of last night, I remembered something.

We were dismissed, and as the head of the gossip column, I knew immediately that this could boost me up to the serious reporter I was destined to be. I walked straight over to Rita to deliver the news personally; but before I got there I had a plan of action devised. I would see Ginny again, tonight.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Hermione

"I can't believe it," he whispered; we pulled up outside my flat. Our journey had been sadly empty for the majority of the time. It was sobering, after watching Luna so invariably upset. She had run from the party before Malfoy could console her. "I'll kill him," Malfoy muttered, "I'll kill him."

"I had no idea it was Ginny," I said, truthfully, "Else I'd have told you straight away."

"I know you would," he said, smiling at me in that way that made my insides feel like jelly.

I nodded out of the window, "I'm home."

He laughed, although he looked upset. "I know. I mean, I'm sorry that we were disturbed."

I laughed. "It's okay, I dread to think what would have happened if we hadn't have been. Not that I would have minded that happening, but I think if someone had have walked in on us in a more uncompromising position it might've been embarrassing."

He chuckled too, "That is quite right,"

I watched his expression; the chuckle, the flash of white teeth. It gave me the strangest emotion – the strangest feeling of want, mixed with apprehension. I wanted him, and I consciously acknowledged it. But tonight, too much had happened, too much was surrounding us to claim our time together. There was the awkward stretch – was I going to have enough courage to ask him inside, to let him in?

But, he seemed to understand what I left unsaid. As I opened my mouth to speak, his hand gently ghosted over my lips, and immediately I was silenced; he was a bizarre hypnotist. I felt his blue eyes, not looking into mine, but somehow tracing their own fiery path over my face, which was frozen in a look of arrest.

"I know," was all he said, before we pressed against one another in a strange fury of mixed passion and longing. I felt our lips slide together again, familiar but different; then on my neck, my collar bones – and still that same juxtaposition between longing, complete ecstasy and some tangible thing I couldn't put my finger on. He was still a gentleman, fingers so gentle but firm and strong as they traced my neck and hair; and he found my eyes then, "It doesn't have to be now."

My heart ached for him, and I just wanted him to know how much. But mere words couldn't express it. I wanted him to know that I was his – most certainly for tonight at least. I recognised now that in some universal way, I always was. Not as I thought first, that he had claimed me – but that I had let him get into my soul, and slowly I had liked the thought of him there.

"Are you tired?" I asked him. My voice was hushed.

He thought for a moment, "Yes." Then he laughed that familiar charming smile, "But I do have a bed..."

"I... just thought that... well I think I need..." I tried to make my voice sound blasé, but I couldn't. And nor could I consciously tell him the truth – this was a much too new conscious fact for me to accept, that we were together. Whatever that meant. So I looked over at the window and then back to him, and said, "Its cold. And I feel... lonely." I admitted to him. In light of admitting something so weak, I had never felt stronger.

And so his hand slid into mine, and together we walked into the flat, the limo driver going off into the distance. I was half-asleep when we were walking through the flat together, hand-in-hand, not bothering to undress and just sliding into my always-too-big double bed.

I don't remember when I fell asleep – or if I fell asleep at all. But I know that every moment was him. And every moment my hand was still clasped in his, and our arms were enfolded around one another in possessive recognition of the fact that we had finally become one.

* * *

_Ron_

It was 5.a.m. and as always sleep was impossible. The fourth vodka was stinging the inside of my stomach, and impossibly it made me feel better – relieved, since it was nothing on the pain she had caused me.

His and her's letters were laid out in front of me, officially signed by the courts, and ready to be sent to affirm the case against Malfoy was beginning.

I looked up at the soft moan from my bed – she was still half-naked and her body was softly outlined in the light from my cheap light-bulbs over head, which despite Hermione's settlement, I still, did not bother to change. Indeed, I hadn't bothered to change so much as the mattress covers – or indeed, where I lived.

Still in the same slum of the apartment; she was everywhere. In every memory which I tried eternally to block out. I loved to bring back the sluts, because I imagined her envious and jealous. The truth was that it was a relief from me feeling that; from my envy and my jealousy.

But not for long.

She looked up at me under heavily lidded eyes. She yawned and stretched, rolling over, and face lighting up in recognition – the memories of the night swimming back to her.

"Hello," she said, and then she sat up. She yawned, tiredly and pressed her lips against mine. "Thanks for the night."

"Anytime." I replied, smoothly. She was half-my-age. About twenty; university student age. I'd picked her up in a student bar – she said I looked depressed, and that I needed cheering up. In fairness, on many accounts, she had succeeded.

Somewhat astoundingly – out of the blue, she turned to me and said, "so how long has she been gone?"

* * *

_Luna_

I took the kids out of the house. We'd packed and left before Blaise got there. When they asked, I told them we were going on vacation for a while. That we'd see Daddy soon.

I lied.

I was crying, and as I packed my life into a black holdall, I couldn't suppress the tears; not even for my children.

When we boarded the plane at Gatwick, I took one last look at London – before I swept the girls into the plane and felt the past get left behind me. Effectively forever.

* * *

Blaise

Nothing can prepare you for the sight of your house being empty. Not only empty of possessions, but of memories, and objects, and essentially empty of life.

Empty of me. Sure, our photographs were still on the walls, but the photographs in which we played happy families, the ones where I was texting my mistress when I'd be free for a fuck. Those ones. Even though some of the girls stayed, they brought painful realisation of the fact that I'd been the most absent Father for years; that even if I was here, I was absent because I cared more for my vanity and my youth than for my children, and that was inexcusable.

I was a coward, and I knew that. I'd always known it. But never had it carried more tragedy. I stayed awake all night, walking my silent house, sobbing, and breaking into fits of uncontrollable emotion. Remembering each life and action that took place along every small part – and then finally trying to ring my wife.

To my dismay, her phone rang from the kitchen. And to my complete dismay, she wasn't secretly hiding there. It was sobering – she wasn't here. She had left me. Not the other way around – she had left me because I didn't love her enough.

But who said I didn't? I had been a fool. I curled up in our bed, and sobbed myself into sleep. I'd been a fool. I loved her enough to be nothing when she left me. I'd never been more lonely and afraid. I'd never needed her more. I'd never wanted to see my children more, either. The confirmation of our love and life together, the representation of it.

My true love.

It had vanished. And it was my entire fault.

* * *

_Angelina_

"Ginny! You look stunning!"

_Don't forget, _it was Rita's voice in my ear piece, as metallic as a snakes. _We're offering two mill. _

"Thank you," she said, half-heartedly. She knew she was gorgeous – I knew she was gorgeous. There was a reason I went for her – those toned legs, pale skin which glowed subtly in the light of the lobby.

I'd invited her for dinner, under a pretence. This was the best restaurant in London – we always took clients here. Ginny wasn't now, any different. Apart from the fact I'd fucked her, I mean. But then I'd fucked the majority of clients, in fairness. Not that this made me a lesser person. Always managed to get me stories in the past.

But why did I feel so uncomfortable about this one?

We sat down at a table (gracefully too, may I add, in my new louboutins) and the restaurant was softly lit by candle light. Jazz was playing at a piano on the far side, and waiters and waitresses were serving in their strange little suits.

We ordered drinks, and Ginny smiled at me – that wide trusting smile.

"What?"

"I'm just surprised, is all." Ginny admitted, with that odd confidence. "I wasn't expecting to be asked on a date."

_I wasn't expecting to give you one, _I thought glumly. "What makes you say that?"

"I looked you up."

It was Rita who summed up a response excellently from my ear piece; _OH FUCK! _

"You – you did?" Was I actually embarrassed? Was that an actual blush in my cheeks?

"Yes... what you didn't expect me to believe an amateur footballer has a house like yours?" she asked, but she didn't seem angry. She seemed curious. "I know you're a reporter, Angelina. You can drop the pretences."

_SHIT. _Yes, Rita. Quite.

"But I want you to know, it is okay. Being a reporter is fine." She took a sip of her wine which the waiter delivered. "It doesn't make anything awkward between us."

Rita might have said, _oh thank fuck – _and I might have heard the exhale of breath from the majority of the news team, who were listening in, but I was filled with dread. It would make everything awkward eventually.

"In which case..." and then I changed direction. I was going to own up to her, come clean about why I met with her. But then something within me changed direction, and I smiled. "Doesn't matter... so, how was your day?"

_What are you doing? You're meant to be offering her money right about now!_

"It was great... but I've got a sexist arsehole on the men's side who seems to think I'm a lesbian now." She rolled her eyes. "he's seen me speaking to one woman, and..."

"He's probably jealous." I pondered, remembering vaguely the lout who insulted the women in such a way. He was an arse. "Anyway, _have _I converted you?" I don't know why I actually cared. Neither did Rita it seemed: _why is this necessary?!_

She laughed; her beautiful deep-belly laugh. "Partially I think. I certainly enjoyed myself, if that's what you're asking me."

I grinned. I was the type who was always gratified at a conversion – but I really felt better knowing I'd won Ginny over to the dark side.

"I don't know _what _I am." Ginny admitted, "I'd never really thought about women that way. I mean I've always known what got me off... but..."

I wondered if she knew that she was reciting this to the entire National Newspaper team – and if she heard the bloke's raucous wolf-whistles – if she knew this then would she ever speak to me again?

No probably not.

Then wasn't it fairer, I thought, as she began speaking, to take her out of her misery?

But I couldn't. Something was stopping me from shattering the illusion, and I didn't know why but I wanted to just be her date. Just for tonight. Like I wasn't the dating type – but Ginny made me want to be. So, as I lifted my hand up – to seemingly scratch my ear under my hair – I knocked away the little nub of plastic and Rita's hold over me was gone.

I was already envisaging the entire News team going berserk, but for the time being I was content. So I reached forward and folded my hand in hers, and listened to her story. And for once, on a date, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

* * *

"WHAT THE FUCK," She snarled, "HAPPENED LAST NIGHT?!"

"I don't know," I said with mock confusion. I was like a little blonde bimbo. Of course she saw right through it.

"You like her, don't you?" she said, standing back and watching me. Her arms were folding. She sighed, resolutely, and flopped down into her chair behind her desk. I had been called into her office early, and I was like a rebellious teenager in front of her principal.

"I don't dislike her," I admitted, childishly. I didn't even want to admit I liked her myself. Touchy-squishy feelings were forbidden.

"You like her," Rita defined, and she took off her glasses to rub clean their lenses with her dress. She glared at me.

I was torn. In theory, I did like her. Maybe more than I should – I couldn't excuse my behaviour any other way... "I can't help it." I admitted, carefully. I watched her face grow from anger into wide-eyed awareness, and then into anger again. I was shocked – all the time's I'd rolled in late, all the stories I'd got her from the world's top politicians and business men. "I didn't mean to –"

"But you did," Rita sighed, shaking her head. "And just when I thought I could rely on you. I'm so disappointed."

"Rita, I..." I felt awful. She was like my mentor, and I'd let her down. She picked me out as a graduate of Journalism and shoved me into one of the best jobs ever, for one of the UK's most famous national newspapers.

"No. I'll find someone else to infiltrate." She said, woodenly. Her red talons reached threateningly for the phone to ring someone else – and in desperation, I cried out -

"But I can do it!"

She paused, and looked up at me, raising a blonde eyebrow.

"How can you if you run away with her? If you fall for her?!" snapped Rita.

I was taken aback. Pathetically, I looked for any form of answer as her hand drifted to the telephone again and I cried out, "No! I won't, I won't!"

Rita smirked, looking sickeningly satisfied, and then put her arm back by her side. "You know, Angelina... I see a lot of myself in you." Her eyes swept into my hair, and – I was half uncomfortable. She looked almost wistful. Then the look vanished, and she was back. "I want the full story on my desk by next Friday..."

"That's a week away!" I cried in protest.

She blinked, mock-confused. "Oh, so it is... well. If you get it down, perhaps we might have our new executive editor."

"But that's Lockhart's job..." with spectacular comic timing, Lockhart was proudly strutting from his office with his normal mince, desk objects in the box he was holding.

"Looks like his numbers up." Rita leaned forwards, over the desk, so that her breath fanned my face. "Don't miss this opportunity, Angelina. You'll regret it."

"I won't," I replied, at once, gathering my things and getting out before she could fire my sorry arse. Didn't know how truthful I was being, though.


	15. Chapter 15

_The Past Is Revealed._

_**Logic and Reason go out of the window when love gets involved...  
**What more can I say, folks? Enjoy! x_

_Malfoy_

It was the first time I'd ever gone to sleep. First time in two years, at least. Sure, it was only for an hour. But no dark shadows of my nightmares stirred in the deep lagoon of my thoughts; for once, it was only her. Only she was in my thoughts, both conscious and waking.

When my eyes opened, it took a moment before I remembered why I was here, or why she was curled up in my arms, beautiful even in sleep. Especially in sleep – her hair a mess on the pillows, cheeks flushed, and pale lids closed. Beautiful lips murmuring words which sounded suspiciously like my name.

With light fingertips, I traced her cheekbones, and pressed my lips gently to hers. It was strange when I realised that I was conscious when doing this – I'd done it so often in my dreams that nothing could prepare me for the pure joy I felt when her lips became responsive under mine, our tongues twisting in a beautiful dance.

When I pulled away, her beautiful eyes slid open, and her face lit up with joyful recognition, and then that blush crept along her cheeks, that same one which I couldn't help but slide my pale fingers against in measurement.

"Morning," I said, and my voice was a smile. I had grown so accustomed to smiling, yet for once, I was smiling because I wanted to.

"Morning," she whispered back. Her eyes were intent on mine, then travelling to my lips which had woken her. "Thank you for sleeping with me."

We both laughed; her beautiful peal of bells and my chuckle, which rang together like a beautiful symphony.

"My pleasure, it was the best night's sleep I've had in years, Hermione." I replied.

I couldn't contain the mix of pleasure, peace and sadness which permeated my voice. Of course she picked up on it, and her eyes widened and then went to their sympathetic beauty. "I'm sorry. I've tormented you so very much."

"Not just because of you."

"But some of it," she said. Her hand found my face, tracing my features delicately, and then she did something incredibly unexpected.

She rolled over, suddenly on top of me. I leaned back against the fluffy pillows as she straddled me, hands undoing the buttons of my shirt. She had a twinkle in her eyes as she leaned forwards and kissed my chest. Only she could ever make me gasp like that. "How am I ever going to repay you for it?"

I laughed along with her – her fingers were tracing the planes of my chest, the light tan and the hard muscles. "I'm so sorry." She whispered, and I found her huge wide eyes; full of some sort of tangible emotion. I could see now that she was guilty – that she thought I was tormented specifically by her.

The realisation of this false truth made me speechless; and then I realised what she thought I was so saddened about. My instinctive reaction was to slide her gently off me and before I could do anything, I felt my hands in my hair, covering the emotion which tore my face.

* * *

Hermione

It was a simple enough question, but I was no so worried that I'd said something wrong. I wanted the intimacy back – I wanted him back in between my thighs, laughing with me, rather than on the end of the bed, head in his hands – not looking at me, or at anything.

I knelt up; the two of us were still fully clothed - with the exception of the front of his buttons being undone – yet I might as well have been stark naked for the embarrassment I felt.

"You don't have to tell me." I said, in a small, hard voice. "It's not any of my business." Immediately I leapt into action, pulling on my jacket and shoes. "I know where we stand. I know, I'm still just a –"

"No, Hermione."

His voice was hard, precise, but wrought with emotion. And then I realised he was crying. And then my heart rang out for him. I dropped the other shoe I was holding and knelt there, in front of him, hand finding his face under his hands, forcing them away.

His eyes – blue, piercing and as electric as always found mine. "Tell me." I told him, although I'm not sure if I told him consciously. I might have just appealed to him, or it might have just been a telepathic thought which sang between us.

Either way, his hand found mine and he clenched it quietly before beginning his story.

"I was sixteen. I'd never had a home, or a family; I'd just left the care home I was brought up in, when I met her." He paused; face staring forwards, wracked with such intensity and emotion that I couldn't even label which emotions they were. Not really. "I got on the tube – and there she was. She was just sat there – looking complex, and busy and... and..." his lips paused before the words. "And beautiful. She was writing in a journal, on the phone, talking to her PA... I don't know. But I was enraptured by her. I just... I knew. It all fell into place for me, then and there. Even though at sixteen I was too young to consider the monumental effect, to consider what it was I felt.

"When I got an office-job in London I caught that tube every day. And I always caught the same one which she was on. Sometimes if I was there I waited purposely to get on the same cart she was on. If I was late for work, it was worth it." He chuckled, and wiped a tear away impatiently. "Just to see her, to see her face. I looked for her every morning. Sat there, talking and busy. I appealed for her to look at me. She never did. Why would she, some lowly sixteen year old? The days passed. I'd dated, I'd met lots of women, but it was always her I came back to. Always. Just this woman, on the tube. An eighteen year old boy, willing a woman to look up from her journal and to smile at me.

"One morning she did. And as time went on, more words were exchanged between us. I became less shy, less... young... compared to her years. She was quite a bit older than me, higher up the career ladder. When I asked her out, she said yes. Not because I wanted her to, but because she wanted to, and the little boy in me was thrilled.

"I didn't know then that this woman would become my wife. I really didn't. I took it one day at a time before I proposed to her, suddenly, and she said yes. Our wedding was small, and compact, but steady. We married in a little church in north Yorkshire, and then returned to the real world. Not that there ever was a real world between Astoria and I. We were happy though," he laughed, and the tears came fast. "God, we were happy! I loved her more than anything.

"The Cancer came so quickly, I don't think either of us was prepared for it. When I learned she had lung cancer, do you know what her response was? She invited the entire family over, all our friends, and she had a party. A party. She had terminal cancer, she was going to die, but we were cracking open the champagne because she had 'a good four years left'." his tears were mingled with the exasperation and joy of the memory. "No one was saying anything – least of all me. At first, it would be hard to say she was ill, exactly. She was exactly the same as before, just the same beautiful woman she'd always been. She was with her nieces every day, and cooking and laughing and reading, and playing her piano. She was like that for one whole year. They offered us lots of treatments and therapies which she refused. She said 'If I'm going to die, I'll die looking like me. No fucking about with the time I have left. We're all going to die one day,' she said, 'I just know mine will be relatively sooner than most.' She was right, much to my frustration. I wanted her to stay alive longer for me. Because selfishly, I didn't think I could cope without her. Of course, she knew. She'd just say, 'babe, it's okay. It'll be fine.' And hold me until I cried myself to sleep. And I let her hold me like that, when she was the one who was going to die. When she was the ill one.

"Luna and Blaise visited everyday with Karen and Imogen. Luna wanted her to have pretty pictures to go with," his voice broke on his last words, "we didn't know when she was going to leave us, so every day became a blessing, and not once was one wasted. Luna didn't want her best friend to leave without meeting her children. And Astoria, well... she was envious. She wanted a family so much; she always had. But how could we have one now, when death was so near her? And what sort of life would it be for a baby?

"I wanted to give her what she wanted. In fact I wanted to give it to her so badly it burned me, but she insisted eventually that a family would be a silly idea. 'No worries babe. You'll have one with the next gal you meet' she said. I never ever believed her. In fact I was angry at her for even thinking it. How would there ever be anyone else? After her? How could I possibly have another?

"When she died, she died peacefully. Her heart just stopped beating. I held her hand from first to last. It was cold in mine, and I couldn't let it go right away. It was Blaise who helped me to let go of her. They buried her in the same church we married in – the church was packed. She touched so many lives, so many I didn't even realise, didn't even think about. I've never been so sad, and so relieved and so heartbroken. Because at that moment she was truly gone.

"I think I stopped living from the funeral onwards. I became as dead as my wife was. Sometimes I'd think about ending it all and joining her, but Astoria wouldn't want that. The very last thing she said to me was 'now, babe. You need to find yourself another gal just like me, and have beautiful kids, and name them all Astoria. And don't be sad. Don't be sad forever'. But I was sure I would be. I knew I would be. It was unfair of her to make me promise not to end my own life; because without her, I lacked identity, and meaning, and function. I was a twenty six year old, poor widow. What was I going to do with my life? I had no qualifications, no job, and a lot of debt. What did I do now?

"I buried myself in my work. I got a huge loan from the bank, bought shares, invested in places and companies which took off, and earned me enough to pay the bank back, tenfold. I worked day and night; I was gradually learning to cope without her, by burying my life into something else. Blaise worried about me, with the urgency of his wife. They invited me over a lot, and I was so grateful to them, for what they'd done for Astoria that I offered Blaise a job in the company – really, it was Blaise who made the company what it was. I just reaped the benefits.

"I got into a cycle, being amongst high society; Bankers, investors and celebrities who were worth a lot of money; who I would make money from and with. I invested my time in building relationships and contacts. I was dead on my feet; I became a charming shell of a businessman, which got me every single deal I wanted. Which made me the richest man in the world.

"Then one day... one day I met this woman." He paused, and his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes turned to me. "She was in the casino I'd just bought. Just standing there; and I thought I'd never seen anyone look so beautiful and so sad all at once. But I knew one thing. I hadn't felt like that in fifteen years, and I'd be damned if I'd let it pass through my fingers."

He found my face, eyes full of hopeless torment. "I know I should be sorry, for what I've done to you, and to your husband-"

"_Ex-_husband," I whispered.

"But I couldn't help myself. I _saw _you, not some artificial woman after my money. When I looked at you, you weren't a constant reminder of my past. You were an incessant hope for my future.I knew that you would never have me. What, ten years your senior? I knew that I was old fashioned, inexperienced; I knew you'd never want me. But I confess... I wanted you."

The way he said it raised gooseflesh on my skin, made me feel cold and hot all at once. I watched him, and he ran his hands through his hair, standing up over me; gorgeous, broad and with eyes full of love. Of devotion.

I was breathless, stunned.

"I took you," he whispered, "I took you because you said you couldn't be bought. And it was true – what you said then... it was all true. You can't be. I had never had any experience getting what I wanted through mortal means; all the time it was through business deals. Ron was willing, to my delight, and I took you. Because just one night was enough. Just one night to escape."

He walked towards me, muscle rippling because of his rolling shoulders. He stood there, staring up at me; conflicted by his guilt and his desire. "I relive every moment we shared together that night," he whispered. Even though he was half way across the room, the familiar hum of his voice reverberated everywhere. It was as though it was inside me. "I remember every touch, every glance, every... Every whisper...

"One night," he whispered, "One night and I was positive I could leave you alone, with that money, to try and help you. To try and get you to do better things with it than I ever could... But I can't leave you alone," he said, and it was so honestly said, so simply said, that my heart ached with the weight of it.

"I have tried... in vain," he said, his eyes on mine, blue on brown, "I have tried and I can't try anymore. Because beyond all this, Hermione..." he breathed in deeply, "Beyond all this, I love you."

The words seemed to echo for ages, and I couldn't even for a second try and make sense of them; to detangle them, and try and make them out as something plainer than eight meagre letters. I stared at him, and slowly. Then eventually, I stopped trying to comprehend it. Logic and reason go out of the reason when love got involved – all I knew is that in that moment, knowing that he loved me, and feeling the response so intimately moved me to tears. Because the truth was he'd had be from hello.

I walked steadily over to him. Our eyes were connected by some strange gravity – his arms opening at once. It was strange, to suddenly be stood there; surreal even, to feel how I felt after everything. And yet it was so right. It was so true. It made no sense, and all the sense in the world. Why make sense of it? What was the point of making sense of this emotion which made my blood tingle and burn and rise in the most exotic of ways? That made me look at him in the most beautiful of ways? It was just right. This – him in my arms, my hands sliding over his shoulders gently, his hands on my waist, warm and wide. This was right, he and I... we were right.

"I love you too." The words fell from my lips, and his answering smile was breath taking. He looked as though of all the things he expected me to say, that wasn't it. His eyes filled with wonder, emotion, and happiness. It was the man beneath the suit, the one I loved – here, in my arms, telling me he loved me. And me, always, loving him back.

I don't think I'd ever been with a man more generous. He was completely different to anything I knew. I suppose it was better, consciously knowing what each of us had been denying. Whereas before he asked permission, now he was allowed to do as he pleased; and I let him. I let his hands slip my dress away, ghost over my shoulders; feeling the exposed skin. He let my hands undo his shirt, revealing that pale robust muscle which I couldn't help but feel under ardent fingertips.

We both knew we had all the time in the world for this. So we tortured and pleasured ourselves in making it slow, and careful, and appreciative. I peeled away his trousers, and he my underwear. We explored together - It wasn't like that night before – that night had been beautiful but neither of us had been our true selves, and justifiably, we had denied ourselves this. This was... everything.

I couldn't help digging my hands in his back, him on top of me, appealing my body to arch in response to him. He was divine; his carved body was the most beautiful thing I'd ever had. Greedily, we feasted on one another and for that moment. Together, we forgot the world and remembered ourselves. For just that moment in time, all there was, was he and I.

And I knew, when oblivion came, and I looked into his eyes, that was all there would ever be.


	16. Chapter 16

Therapy

Blaise

Of course I knew he was coming for me. Of course we would. I'd spent four days, curled up in bed. Isolated from the rest of the world; and when Malfoy let himself into my house, I didn't stop him.

"How could you do it?"

I didn't know how long he'd been stood there, in my dark room. I don't really know how long I was sat on the end of my bed, Imogen's teddy bear in my hands. I don't remember. Grief was strange – you lost all bearings on time and place.

What was the point in explaining myself? How could I have explained? I didn't know. It was a foolish need to be adored and loved when I was adored and loved already. When I already adored my wife, and had committed to loving her.

I don't know if I spoke it or not. But Malfoy's voice rang out of the darkness.

"Do you still love her?"

"Yes." I answered, truthfully. I'd always loved her. Right from the moment I'd laid eyes on her.

There was silence for a long time, and I knew he'd come to sit next to me on the bed, glancing at Imogen's bear in my icy hands.

"You're a fool."

"I know."

"You let her go... even worse, you pushed her away. I never got the choice." Malfoy paused, hesitated, and then continued, standing up.

"Fix it with her. I don't care how, or why, or when. But please, Blaise," Malfoy said, gently. "Fix it."

* * *

_Ron_

I was aghast. What the fuck?

She stared at me, her red-lipsticked-lips turned up in amusement.

"I can still smell her on the pillow. Actually, I smell lots of women on the pillow. But there's one scent stronger than the rest..."

"Shut up." I snapped. Her scent made the pain in my chest clench. Pain I didn't even know I had.

"Why?" she appealed. She pushed away the Duvet, and she crawled towards me, stark naked still. She was the most confident of women I'd ever met; I think that was why I chose her. Smirking over me, her prettily manicured hands pushed my legs forcefully apart; as she bent down, her lips slid over my stomach, onto my chest. "Why?" she repeated, "Does it hurt?"

The automatic reaction I felt at her rubbing coyly against my privates contrasted by the rage I felt at the mention of my wife. Before I knew what I was doing, I lashed out – my hands jerked forwards, and together, we rolled over. She was automatically pinned underneath me, hands over her head.

She didn't look remotely concerned; actually, she was laughing.

To my surprise, I felt a strange smile too. The pain hadn't vanished, nor the aggression; but her expression, her amusement, her obvious pleasure, made me grow hard.

"What was your name again?" I growled.

She gave that strange trill of feminine laughter, and batted her lashes compliantly. "Lavender. Lavender Brown."

I grinned, and pressed my lips eagerly against her throat, and she kicked back; we fought for dominance, and to my surprise, she won. Straddling me eagerly, she kissed my chest, hand drifting southwards.

"So," she hissed, "Finally going to tell me her name?"

My smile vanished, and she raised an eyebrow.

"If you don't want to, that's fine," she whispered; her eyes had suddenly lost their seductive glare. At the same time, mine lost their anger. She suddenly seemed like a child again, just a lowly student. Just eighteen.

I sighed, and my hands slicked against her thighs. I didn't know why, but I wanted to tell this one everything. I mean most of the time, I told them nothing. But there was something about her... there was something...

"She left me." I told her, looking up into her eyes. "She left me for another bloke."

She laughed; it was a strange thing to do in the circumstances, really. She should surely have been sombre; but no. She laughed.

"What?"

"Not due to your performance in the bedroom, I take it?"

I growled, and she giggled as I threw her off me.

"Aw, come on, Ronny-kins," the goading nickname pierced my eyes with both revulsion and a twisted desire. She knelt down next to me, and her tongue slithered close to my ear.

"Your performance was more than satisfactory." I felt her lips at my ear lobe, and I reluctantly relaxed again. "You can tell me, though." She whispered, finally. It was a surprise, her tone. I looked up at her, stunned. I think maybe she had a sort of split personality. Again, she was the young girl, the innocent... but there was something, lurking below the surface of her. She was more than she seemed. "I'll never tell anyone."

It was strange, but in that moment, I think I knew that I'd met my match.

* * *

Ginny

After the fourth chorus of "Weasley is a lesbo" I'd had enough. Harry Potter and his stupid male football team were being dick heads, stood at the edge of the pitch, throwing me off my game. I'd not scored a single goal, and the opposite side were up 10-2. We were losing spectacularly.

"WEASLEY! GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD ON THE PITCH, AND OUT OF YOUR ARSE!" Screamed Hooch, all the way from the stands.

"OR OUT OF YOUR GIRLFRIENDS ARSE!" Cried Dean.

They fell into manly chuckles. I turned to them and flashed them the V's. Jerk offs. If Angelina was here, I'd probably snog her in front of them. They were clearly after something to wank over, saddos. I was pretty certain that if they actually saw me snogging a woman, they'd be nonplussed.

The whistle blew, and all at once the game was over. We women looked at one another, hopelessly. And then I realised precisely what this meant. We'd lost our funding.

We had lost.

* * *

The male locker rooms were empty. Apart from one vital player. I had a feeling he was waiting for me. I didn't bother to knock, strolling in with him half-dressed.

"Ginny! To what do I owe the pleasure?" he grinned, running a hand through his wet hair and extending it in welcome.

I looked at it as though it were a wet dog, and then back up to him furiously. Before I knew what I was doing, my hands acted of their own accord. I pushed him back into the lockers, and he staggered, stunned at first. My hands scorched where I'd touched his bare chest; I even looked like I'd cut him a little. Oh no, what a shame.

"Weasley, what the fuck-!"

"You, Potter! You're a fucking nob head! You come on to the pitch, distracting me. You fuck about, thinking you know everything about me, just because you've seen me talking to some woman, who you've interpreted as a lesbian. You know, that would be fine! I'd be fine if you hadn't brought it to the fucking pitch, Potter! But you did! Congrat-u-fucking-lations! I've lost my funding, I've lost my job, because you're a fucking jackass!"

To my surprise, he didn't gloat. He looked stunned. He stared at me, confused.

"Weasley... what do you mean, you've lost your funding?"

"That was our last chance, Potter! And you fucking knew that! If we didn't pass it, you're bastard Uncle on the Chair of Governers removes our jobs-!"

"Whoa whoa whoa." He said, holding his hands up with mock innocence. "What do you mean? I didn't know anything of the sort! I promise, Weasley!"

I laughed right in his face. "Yeah, right!"

"I didn't! Honestly! If I did I'd never have – it's just... Weasley, you have talent. Fuck, I mean... shit." He shook his head, pulling on his shirt and not bothering to towel dry his hair. "I'll fix it. I'll speak to Vernon now."

"I'll believe that when I see it. Why the fuck would you do that?" I snarled at him, but I was amazed. Beneath my front of revulsion, I was astounded.

He paused, frowning, then he looked up at me. "I erm... I think you have talent, Weasley. I always have... and..." he drew in a deep breath, and stepped forwards. "The only reason I was so sore about the lesbian thing is because... because I..." he halted, and for the most confident and arrogant bloke I knew, he was suddenly the least confident one. "I think I fancy you."

I stared at him, horrified. What? Potter fancied me? That was impossible, that was ridiculous. The stupid dick head that was Harry Potter, fancied me?

"So you're going to sort it out with your precious Uncle because you think I'm worth a bang? Oh fucking cheers." I spat at him.

He blinked, and then he grinned. "Not just that, no." He was walking forwards – and suddenly, the power in this entire situation changed. I backed away, immediately.

"I've always fancied you, Weasley. It's all the boys tease me about." He said, honestly. "I love a fiery woman; I love a red head, and for a while now, I've loved winding you up." He stopped suddenly, "But I can see this time, maybe I went too far."

"Overstatement of the century," I replied. But he grinned.

"See, the thing is, Weasley." He was whispering now, right up close to me. "The thing is, I don't care if you bang girls or not. I don't care if that arse hole Blaise or whatever his name was, was banging you even if he has a lovely wife and kids – "

"How the fuck do you know about that?"

"Weasley, everyone knows." He replied; I realised his hand had crept into my hair. I couldn't find the urge to push it away.

"-I just want you."

"You mean you want a shag."

"No, I mean – well, that might be nice," he said, with that honesty which always made me feel a deep seated anger. "But I think I'd like to try us out, in all honesty."

"You're a fucking nob head."

"Yup." He agreed, but his hand fell underneath my chin. "I'm a man. It goes with everything I am."

Before I knew it, he'd pulled my head up towards him, and pressed his lips against mine. It was a strange kiss – yet, I didn't pull him away. Instead, of their own accord, my hands slithered around his neck, into his hair. His down into my hips, lifting me up against the wall; I pulled away from him to breathe as his lips traced patterns on my chest. Oh fuck. I fancied Potter.

Fuck.

I was breathing rapidly, and by the time his lips found mine again, I couldn't exert self-control. I felt his abdomen, his broad shoulders, tempted to peel away his shirt for a better touch. Yet, for all the reasons I'd decided I loathed him. For his arrogance, his sexism, his inability to keep his willy in his pants... he seemed to exert none of those qualities. He was passionate, sure. But he was careful. He let me make the moves first, and he seemed to respect everything I wanted.

He pulled away, and I rested my head against his chest, out of breath.

"You have no fucking idea," he whispered, "How long I've waited to do that."

"It's not so much how long," I contested, carefully. "It's how long you've known you've wanted to."

"For quite a while," he said, honestly. "Just been denying it."

"I don't trust you," I said, directly. I was looking right in his eyes – and yet, he didn't seem surprised, or annoyed.

"I wouldn't either."

"You're going to tell your stupid mates, aren't you?"

"Not if you don't want me to." He said; and then I realised the truth of those words. Their significance. It wasn't just that he fancied me. He wanted me; just like...

Just like Angelina said he did.

Her prophecy; everything she said. She was right.

"I need to go." I told him, and I detangled myself from him, stepping aside, and pulling down my football shirt. He grinned at me, as I made to leave.

"Ginny?"

I paused at the door, turning around to face him.

"If I prove myself to you... if I get Vernon to keep open your team...?"

"It's not enough." I replied, staring into his eyes. I wasn't trying to be bitchy – I was being honest. The pain, the heartache he put me through. But why did it feel wrong to say that? Why was my chest conflicted so? Why did I feel like crying?

"Okay." He said, acceptingly. Then he stared levelly at me, "I'll earn it, one day."

And with that, I left. More confused that I'd ever been.

* * *

_Angelina _

I was called into her office, yet I'd done everything she'd asked. I didn't know what could possibly be wrong. I'd been ignoring her calls, I'd been pursuing the Blaise bloke just like Rita suggested; what had I done?

I was suspicious when the TV was wheeled into the office. Rita looked at me over her desk; I sat down on the chair.

"What-?"

She didn't answer me verbally. Instead she gave me the remote to the TV and left the room. I was speechless. I clicked play, and the DVD Player jerked to life, to reveal a changing room, where a boy with very messy hair was getting changed...


End file.
